


The Only Way Out is Through

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, Boot Worship, Breathplay, Catheterization, D/s, Edgeplay, Figuring Things Out, Flogging, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Humiliation, Illustrated, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Multi, Roleplay, Sado-Masochism, Subspace, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-09
Updated: 2011-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:21:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred begins a journey to discover his kinks—and along the way, maybe, himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic involves multiple pairings, past and present, real and fantasized; only the significant ones are listed in the tags.
> 
> Originally written for [The Hetalia Kink Meme](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com). Hardcore, consensual BDSM. Request called for "pain, humiliation, fear, and degradation."
> 
> My most sincere thanks to everyone who read and encouraged along the way, anonymously or not. I owe a special debt of gratitude to [Berseker](http://berseker.livejournal.com/)—our conversations were critical in shaping this story.

Alfred is not in love with Kiku. What they have is better than love. Alfred doesn't have a name for it. There probably is a name, but Alfred likes it like this: nameless, freedom in the namelessness.

When it begins—no, before it begins, Alfred and Kiku are fuck buddies. Kiku probably has his own term for it, but that's what Alfred calls it. It's more than fucking even then, of course. There are things they can do and say with each other that they can't—or anyhow don't—with anyone else.

Like for example, this one time after they fuck, as they're lazing in bed, Alfred touches one of Kiku's radiation scars. Without flinching, Kiku looks at Alfred's fingertips resting on his skin there. As moments pass into moments, Kiku looks at Alfred's face and asks what he's thinking.

Still looking at the skin, ruined and healed, Alfred says, "I was wondering what would have happened if I hadn't dropped the Bomb." He rolls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling. "You would've won, probably."

"Yes," Kiku agrees.

Alfred wishes there were a crack up there for him to study so his gaze wouldn't try to roll inside and into the past. He sighs at the flawless ceiling. "I wonder what that would have been like."

The mattress shifts beneath him as Kiku lies down beside him. "Would you like to find out?"

When Alfred turns his head on the pillow, he is met by a serene expression, the one many who don't know Kiku well usually mistake for blank, but that Alfred has come to know means—even now, even before it begins—Kiku has something exquisite in mind.

"I kept my uniform from the war," Kiku says. "I believe it still fits me."

Alfred's eyes glitter.

"Please think of a safeword for the next time we meet," Kiku says.

Propping up on his side, Alfred grins. "I don't need a safeword with you!"

"I think you will, Alfred." If possible, Kiku's expression smoothes into a deeper show of serenity.

It sets Alfred's glitter aflame. "Then you choose for me, if you think so."

Kiku smiles. "'Surrender.'"

Alfred smiles, too.

He wants to start that same afternoon, but Kiku insists that preparations must be made. Among them, he advises Alfred to acquire an American military uniform from WWII.

"Oh, I kept mine, too! And it definitely still fits," Alfred says proudly.

With a tilt of his head, Kiku considers Alfred. "You are very fond of your uniform, aren't you? And the memories it holds for you?"

"Yes!" Too late to catch himself, Alfred tones down his enthusiasm as he amends, "Some of the memories, yeah."

"Please wear one that has no sentimental value for you. Uniforms tend not to hold up well during interrogation, and I would feel very badly if I were to damage your fond memories."

Oh, how Alfred glitters.

 

It turns out not to be as easy to get ahold of an authentic WWII American military uniform as Alfred thought it would be. The Army surplus stores he goes to only have contemporary uniforms and most of the vintage stores don't have anything military, although he does find a pair of boots which he purchases. At the pawn shops, he mostly finds medals (which he doesn't buy; the commercial exchange of bronze stars and flying crosses and purple hearts makes him incredibly sad). In the end, he finds a uniform through auction that, though not a perfect fit, doesn't need much tailoring.

 

The next time Kiku comes to see him, Alfred greets him at the door in uniform. His grin starts to fade when he sees that Kiku has on regular, contemporary street clothes, but comes back up as he realizes Kiku probably brought his uniform to change into instead of wearing it. That makes sense. He notices the elegant box in Kiku's hands now, and the corners of his mouth exceed their earlier height. "Is that what I think it is?"

With the most minimal gesture, Kiku raises the box. "Tea."

"…Tea?"

"Yes." Kiku smiles. "A new blend I have discovered recently. I brought it especially to share with you. I hope you will enjoy it."

"Oh, I—" Alfred pauses uncertainly. "Are we—are we doing it today?"

"Doing it?" Kiku repeats.

Heat and color rise to Alfred's face, which is not at all where he wants them to be. "Um," he says. Then he wonders if maybe his flush is exactly where it's supposed to be, since he understands humiliation can sometimes be a component in the kind of playing they've agreed to.

Kiku looks down at his box of tea, or maybe he's bowing his head. "May I enter, Alfred?"

Then again, maybe his blushing is all wrong. "Yes." Alfred gives himself an internal shake as he steps aside. "Yeah, of course—please come in."

"I hope you will forgive me asking," Kiku says as Alfred is shutting the door behind them, "but are you all right?" Before Alfred has to answer, Kiku adds, "It is only that you failed to make a jest about the tea."

"Oh!" Alfred's laugh sounds forced to himself, but Kiku and his unfailing politeness pretend not to notice. "I think maybe I'm just not—maybe I should change my clothing."

"Please don't do that. You look very nice in that uniform. 'Dashing,' I believe, is the word."

Alfred is much more confident of his new blush. His hand smoothes down the front of his uniform, tugging just so at the hem of the jacket to make it sit to ultimate effect. "Thanks!" He grins. Even if Kiku hasn't brought his WWII uniform, even if they aren't going to play or fuck, even if they're just going to sit and drink tea of all things, Alfred _does_ look good in his uniform. And since Kiku has asked him to, he'll keep it on for whatever is to come. Even if it's tea.

Speaking of which: "Do you want help?" Alfred asks as Kiku starts towards the kitchen.

Kiku pauses and turns to him. "Ah, no, please don't trouble yourself."

"No, it's no trouble!"

Alfred takes a step forward, but Kiku says, "I think it would be better if I were to prepare the tea myself." The slightest of smiles curves his mouth. "Though you excel at many things, Alfred, tea is not one of them." Alfred thinks he sees the corners of Kiku's mouth go up even a little more as he lowers his eyes and says, "Though I do hope I will see you in one of your fine, excelling moments later today."

That can only mean one thing. And if he's making jokes, Kiku must be in a great mood. Grin widening, Alfred sparkles with anticipation. "Okay then. You know where to find me if you need me!"

When Kiku comes in, Alfred is relieved to see he's settled for a simple serving tray which he sets down on the table, instead of trying for the full ceremony. It's not that Alfred doesn't enjoy ceremonies, even if they do involve tea; it's just that, now he knows they're going to play today, he doesn't think he can focus on anything else. He doesn't even have to try not to make a face as he sips the tea; he's so high on anticipation, he doesn't notice the taste at all. He knows he's drinking it a little more quickly than is polite and he tries to force himself to slow down, because he knows that tea is important to Kiku and he wants to respect that. He takes a few sips, slow and steady, letting the hot liquid run over his tongue and down his throat, settling warmly in his belly. Even if he's not crazy about the taste, the sensation is not entirely unpleasant. He takes a few more sips and smiles at Kiku.

"What is your opinion of the tea?" Kiku inquires.

"Oh, it's—" Alfred isn't sure Kiku will want to hear his new-found appreciation for the touch sensation of tea. As he takes another sip, he tries to think of something to say about the taste. "It's very expressive." He dredges up terms from memory. "Complex and harmonious. Nice earthy bouquet."

Kiku lifts his hand to his mouth, but is unable to hide his smile entirely. "Alfred…I believe those are standard wine tasting descriptions."

"Oh. Right." Alfred grins, too. Suddenly he doesn't care whether he and Kiku fuck today or if they just sit here drinking tea all afternoon, because he's actually having a really good time with this, he's feeling _good_ , so relaxed, and Kiku's smile is infectious, Alfred can't stop grinning and grinning; even when the room starts to spin, Alfred can't stop grinning, and when the relaxation tugs him deeper down, he eases into unconsciousness without a fight.

 

Alfred blinks. Blinks again. On the third blink, his vision starts to focus. He starts forward—but instead of moving, he feels a pull in his shoulders. He looks at his arms and realizes two things: they are bare, and his hands are tied behind his back. He looks down and sees that he has been stripped to the waist, that he's barefoot, and that his ankles are tied to the legs of the chair. Uncertainty yields to excitement. He wonders how long he has been like this already, and how long Kiku will continue to leave him here.

Just as he's thinking he should probably call for Kiku, a voice comes from somewhere behind him: "You are a fool, Alfred F. Jones."

As Alfred turns his head, a flash of white appears in his peripheral gaze; he blinks and focuses, and the flash becomes a Japanese Imperial Navy uniform. Alfred's gaze follows as Kiku comes to stand in front of him.

Alfred smiles. "What—"

"You are a fool," Kiku cuts him off. His voice is as cool and calm as his unsmiling face. "To allow your enemy so close. To invite him. Did you forget who I am? Or did you, perhaps, believe I came here to concede your victory?"

Uncertainty returns, rising in his throat. Alfred swallows it down. There's a fuzziness in his head and he goes to rub it away, before the ropes digging into his wrists remind him of his current situation. Is it possible that the war is still on? That what he thinks are memories are, in fact, part of a dream? But no, this is his house; that's his hammock in the corner there, taken down and folded up but still recognizable.

"No, Alfred." Kiku's voice interrupts Alfred's musings and Alfred looks at him again. "I did not come here for that. It is _you_ who will be—surrendering." Kiku's mouth twitches up the least little bit as he gives soft emphasis to that last word, and Alfred feels a visceral thrill roll through him, coming to rest in the upturned corners of his mouth.

Then Kiku says, "Do you know who I am?"

"You're Kiku!" When Kiku's hard stare seems to demand more, Alfred says, "Honda Kiku."

Kiku makes a sound of annoyance. His hand smoothes down his jacket. "Do you know what this is? What it signifies?"

"Your uniform? Well, it's Imperial Navy, right?"

"I am Tokkeitai."

Kiku didn't tell him to pick a name for this scene. Alfred guesses it's too late for this time, since Kiku has been calling him Alfred. He'll have to think up a good one for next time. "Hi, Tokkeitai!"

Alfred can't read the look Kiku is giving him. He wonders if maybe he didn't pronounce Kiku's pseudonym correctly.

Then Kiku says, "Secret Police of the Imperial Navy. Among other duties, the Tokkeitai handles intelligence. Do you understand your position now?"

Kiku is going all out for this. Grinning more, Alfred nods. "Yeah."

Kiku's open hand strikes him across the face. Alfred's eyes widen at the impact, lips parting though no sound comes out.

"You do not seem to understand."

"No, I get it!"

Heat from the second slap overlaps with the first; Alfred is sure his face is colored with his blush as much as the impact of Kiku's hand. "Then why are you smiling?"

The words come to Alfred's lips before he knows what they are, but as he hears them, he knows they're the right ones. "Heroes always smile."

Kiku regards him. "If that is true, then we will see if you really are a hero."

Alfred's grin widens. A challenge has been issued; the game has taken on a new dimension. So he continues to smile as Kiku strikes him again, and again; he smiles even as he feels his lip split, as he tastes his own blood; even as his smile splinters, as blood smears from his lip to his skin, Alfred gathers up the fragments and shapes his mouth into a new smile.

The rhythm breaks when Kiku pauses to look at his bloodied fingers. For a moment, Alfred thinks Kiku is going to lick them—but instead he takes a few steps to the side, picks up Alfred's uniform jacket, removes something from the pocket, and wipes his hand clean on the jacket before letting it drop again.

As he walks back, Kiku steps right on the jacket and Alfred feels his brow furrow, feels a "hey!" forming on his lips; but the blood there is a reminder. So instead he smiles.

As Kiku walks back to him, Alfred can see the object in his hand is a pack of cigarettes. Lucky Strikes, though Alfred hasn't seen that particular packaging in years. Alfred knows he didn't put the cigarettes there. Kiku sure is thorough; he even remembered Alfred's brand during the '40s. Kiku lights the cigarette, the cherry flaring to life as he inhales.

The heat in Alfred's face lingers, tingling. It's as if he can feel the blows better now that Kiku isn't actually hitting him anymore: phantom handprints sink beneath his skin to rest against his nerves. It's like the first time he got fucked, or really it was like the days after that, when he could still somehow feel the shape of that cock, even though it wasn't physically there, and how he had longed for it. He wonders if he'll miss Kiku's hand tomorrow.

Smoke drifts from between Kiku's lips as he looks at Alfred now. Alfred feels the split in the broken skin of his lip, but that doesn't stop him from stretching the curve up even more.

As Kiku approaches him, hands behind his back, Alfred steels himself for another blow, wondering if it will be Kiku's hand again or if he's brought something, a whip or a cane maybe.

But it's only the cigarette in Kiku's hand when he brings it forward. He puts the filter to Alfred's lips. "Hold this, Alfred." Alfred feels renewed heat in his face, his blood responding to Kiku's voice, Kiku's continuing and relentless use of his name, to the intimacy that is somehow both familiar and strange.

Leaving the cigarette there, Kiku walks out of Alfred's line of sight. Alfred can't guess what Kiku is up to and tries to shift in the chair, but the bonds hold him firmly in place.

The cigarette between his teeth doesn't impede the grin Alfred turns on Kiku when Kiku comes back into view a moment later. Kiku doesn't comment on Alfred's smile as he withdraws the cigarette from Alfred—and then instead of taking a toke, Kiku holds it out to Alfred again: but not to his mouth, lower: Alfred feels heat at the hollow of his throat.

It's not like the heat of his flushed face or rousing cock. It's external. It's uncomfortable. Dangerous. Instinct tells Alfred to move back.

He doesn't move at all, except to smile more.

"What did I tell you about that disgusting smile of yours, Alfred?" Soft, calm, quiet.

Alfred opens his mouth to ask if Kiku remembers, in turn, what Alfred told him about heroes—when the heat sharpens as it cuts into his skin, taking his words away, taking his breath away. It sears into him, not at the hollow where it had hovered, but just off that, at the knob of his collarbone.

It's just a flash of touch and then it's gone—and then the pain gets worse as the sharpness dulls and throbs and sinks in deeper.

Alfred smiles.

Kiku brings over a chair and sits in it facing Alfred. "Do you know what your capture means?"

"You already asked me that." Even though the cigarette is gone, the heat only intensifies, suffusion vibrating down into his bones. "I understand very well."

As if Alfred hasn't spoken, Kiku says, "It means that I have also captured your scientists. Your technology. Your Manhattan Project."

Alfred's breathing reverses, inhale and exhale colliding so he loses a breath. He feels foolish for not realizing it was going to go this way.

"Your claims have made me curious about it, so I have decided to see for myself how it works. Which beloved city of your Allies should I test it on? Paris? Shanghai? Moscow?" Alfred knows the last city before Kiku says it, but his mouth still goes dry as Kiku says, "London?"

"You don't—you can't—"

"I assure you, Alfred. I do, I can, I will. You should consider this a testament to the esteem I hold for you as an opponent that I am offering you this chance to choose."

The heat drains from Alfred's face, from his body. He shivers. "This isn't esteem. This is—I won't collaborate. I won't let you turn me into a traitor."

Kiku leans closer, closer; close. "You've lost your smile, Alfred. Shall I find it for you?" He sits back. "Ah, here it is." Kiku's lips curve up and up. "So does this make me the hero, Alfred?"

Alfred wants to tell Kiku that he, Alfred, is still the hero. But the words won't come.

So he spits in Kiku's face.

In the next moment, Kiku is up, overturning the chair with Alfred still bound to it, slamming Alfred to the floor. Before Alfred can try to right himself, before he can move at all, he feels Kiku's firm hand; he feels the flat of a cool, smooth blade against his skin, sliding between his wrists as Kiku cuts through the bonds. Alfred brings his freed hands up by his head, but just as he's pushing himself up, the chair digs into him and he's forced down. Feeling the blade again, he guesses Kiku is leaning against the chair as he reaches down to cut the bonds at Alfred's ankles.

Then the weight is gone. Alfred hears the chair thud against the floor as it's pushed off him. He starts to get his feet under himself, but Kiku kicks him in the side; it's the loss of balance more than the pain that knocks Alfred over. He feels the sole of Kiku's booted foot against his nape, forcing him all the way down. There's a shifting, but no lessening of pressure on the back of his neck, and Kiku's other boot appears before Alfred's face, occupying his gaze.

"Kiss it."

Kiku's voice is soft, calm, steady; the harsh, desperate breathing Alfred hears, then, must be entirely his own.

The toes of the boot nudge forward without touching him. "Kiss it, Alfred," Kiku repeats. "I will have your lips or I will take your teeth. I will not say it again."

Alfred is certain Kiku wouldn't really kick his teeth in—but he thrills to the words nevertheless. He replays them in his mind, sinks into them, and when the boot nudges closer, Alfred presses his lips to it; then he parts them and runs his tongue over well-worn and well cared-for leather.

The foot on his neck is replaced by a hand, sliding up to his head, fingers stroking through his hair. Alfred licks the boot again, letting his lips close as his tongue comes off leather to curl into his mouth, his lips shaping another kiss.

"Very nice." There's something in the softness of the voice, something pleased; something pleasured. With a sigh, Alfred closes his eyes and turns to rub his cheek along the boot—but the hand in his hair tightens, drags him up, and Alfred goes with the pull.

Once he's up, Alfred lifts a hand to straighten his glasses, knocked askew when he was down. Just as he gets the end of the temple behind his ear, Kiku's hand closes around his wrist. Looping a new rope around the wrist, Kiku brings it down to join Alfred's other hand, this time binding them in front of him and leaving a long length as he ties it off. Then Alfred understands as Kiku rights the chair and stands on it to pass the rope through one of the empty hammock hooks in the ceiling, forcing Alfred's arms to stretch up. "Feet together," Kiku says, and when Alfred complies, Kiku kneels to bind them together at the ankles.

Kiku turns in profile as he rises, not looking at Alfred but allowing Alfred to see him as he draws out a pair of gloves, white leather, and puts them on. Still without giving Alfred a glance, Kiku walks behind him.

Alfred shivers at the touch of leather on the back of his neck. The gloved fingertip traces down from Alfred's nape along his spine, withdrawing when it reaches his waistband. Another leather touch, this time full contact from the hand, fingers splayed out in the caress. Alfred arches into the touch.

The next touch is still leather—the thong of a whip licks across his back, making him arch back the other way, his breath a rough, choked cry. The next stroke is lower, across the back of his thighs; the next one strikes his ass. As the whipping continues, Alfred feels as though it's leaving his clothes in tatters, as ragged as his breathing.

And then his clothing does tear: the dagger point presses against Alfred's skin here and there but never punctures it as Kiku cuts the trousers off of him with characteristic precision, leaving nothing but the waistband and belt as the fabric falls away. What little freedom of breathing Alfred had is taken away when the buckle is pulled hard against his belly as Kiku tugs from behind, opening enough space to fit the dagger between leather and skin, cutting through the strip of leather and leaving Alfred, finally, naked.

Alfred concentrates on breathing as Kiku comes around to stand in front of him once more. He prepares himself for their eyes to meet—but instead of looking him in the face, Kiku angles his gaze lower. Alfred looks down, too, and wonders how he can possibly feel such a blush in his face when all of his blood seems to be in his cock.

The white leather glove obscures Alfred's view as Kiku lifts his hand; tucking the curl of his forefinger under Alfred's chin, snugging his thumb over it, Kiku brings Alfred's gaze to him. Their eyes meet; the gaze holds even when Kiku lets go.

Then Kiku slaps his cock.

As his eyes close, Alfred hears a moan escape him; any shame he might feel for that is engulfed by the next wave of pleasure as Kiku slaps him again; and again; even when Kiku slaps Alfred across the face, the sensation vibrates in his cock.

Heat radiates and spirals through him, coiling in his balls, tighter and tighter with each wallop and Alfred knows the next impact will push him over the edge—but instead of another slap, he feels something cold clamp down at the base of his cock. Looking down, he sees that's exactly what it is: Kiku has latched onto him with a spring clamp. Alfred watches Kiku's other hand slap him again, the striking contrast of white leather against Alfred's blood-darkened cock giving him as much of a pleasure jolt as the force of contact.

"Please~"

One hand still holding the clamp, the other slides with sharp impact and heavy friction across Alfred's face. Alfred moans inarticulately; the next moan shapes into words: "Please~ oh, Kiku," and then Alfred chokes on his next moan as Kiku slaps his face again. He closes his eyes and wordlessly opens his mouth wider for air; he would open his legs if he could as Kiku clamps down fractionally harder on his cock.

"Please," Alfred whimpers with the first breath he has back, "please, Kiku, please~"

"Please, what?"

 _please i—please, Sir, i want to come/suck your cock/feel you inside me/around me~please let me have your cock/your hands/your teeth/your tongue~please fuck me/hit me/do whatever you want with me/to me~please~please~_

"Please. Please, please~"

"I did not come here for your begging," Kiku says. He stops slapping Alfred's cock to tilt Alfred's chin again so Alfred is looking into his eyes. "You know what I came for. What I want to hear. You know what you have to do, Alfred."

"…Surrender."

Kiku kisses him, tenderly and intensely. Then he releases Alfred from the hook, undoing the knot and letting him slip out of the rope. The pressure on Alfred's cock is gone, but as desperate as he is, he doesn't want to come just yet and replaces the clamp with his own tightly-closed hand as Kiku kneels to undo the bonds around Alfred's ankles. When Alfred steps free, Kiku tries to stay down, hands reaching for Alfred's hips—but before his mouth can touch Alfred's cock, Alfred urges him up and pushes him into the chair.

As Alfred kneels now, Kiku doesn't need to be asked to undo his trousers. The dark flush of his cock against the white of his uniform is so beautiful—but Alfred can't take even a fraction of a moment to memorize it because he needs Kiku's cock and there is nothing, no one to stop him from having it.

Moaning around the firm heat in his mouth, Alfred goes down, trying to swallow as much of Kiku as he can before moving back to lavish attention on Kiku's cockhead; then taking him in again, swallowing convulsively around him.

Kiku's foot, still booted, nudges against Alfred's sac and Alfred spreads his legs as he kneels and sucks. The sole of the boot drags up along Alfred's cock and by the time it's reached his tip, Alfred is shuddering, spurting out over the leather, his own hand, his belly.

He keeps sucking until he feels Kiku's hands tighten in his hair; when Kiku tugs this time, Alfred doesn't yield to it but keeps sucking and sucking until Kiku fills his mouth, until Kiku's come is sliding down his throat.

Alfred sits back. He looks at Kiku. They look at each other.

"That," Alfred says when he can find his voice. "Fuck, Kiku—that was _awesome_!"

The subtle sweetness Alfred didn't realize he was missing has returned to Kiku's eyes. "Yes, it was—awesome," Kiku agrees. His use of the word makes Alfred grin. Kneeling up, he touches his grin to Kiku's mouth, feels Kiku open to it, welcoming him into the kiss and returning the warmth.

"Come to bed with me." Kiku's voice is soft as ever, but there's a weight that makes the bow of Alfred's mouth deepen as he says yes.

They don't fuck. Kiku kneels behind Alfred on the bed, massaging his shoulders. Alfred kind of likes the ache from being stretched and held in unnatural positions, but finds himself sighing deeply as Kiku rubs and kneads.

After a while, Kiku's hands slip down from Alfred's shoulders; closing first around Alfred's biceps, Kiku's hands slide with gentle pressure down the length of Alfred's arms to his hands, then withdraw—only to go back up and slide down again, and then again. It's strange to Alfred that he becomes more aware of his breathing as it eases; usually it's the quickening that he notices. He closes his eyes and breathes easy.

He keeps them closed as Kiku stops stroking his arms and turns his attention to Alfred's back, treating the welts with salve and bandaging the ones that bled, he explains, so they won't scar. When he finishes, he suggests that Alfred lie on his side, but Alfred lies on his back anyhow, and savors the heat that spreads out under his skin.

As Kiku begins tending to the rope marks on Alfred's wrists, Alfred feels on the verge of a kind of peace he doesn't think he's ever felt. There's just one thing nagging at him.

"Kiku…is my smile really disgusting to you?"

"No." Still holding Alfred's hand, Kiku touches Alfred's face, lets his fingertip rest at the corner of Alfred's mouth. He smiles himself. "I will do what I can to protect your smile, Alfred. Please do the same."

Alfred feels his smile flourish under Kiku's hand; under and with Kiku's lips.

As he watches Kiku's fingers tending to him, Alfred says, "Did you really think it was awesome?"

He hears the smile in Kiku's voice as Kiku says, "Yes. You did very well. You exceeded all my expectations."

This is quite possibly the highest praise Alfred has ever received from Kiku. His face warms, but the blush doesn't feel like embarrassment to him. He isn't really sure what his response feels like, exactly, except that it feels good.

Then as he replays their scene, embedding it in memory, feeling arousal begin to thread through the tranquility of his body, he comes to the moment he surrendered—and a sense of shame does come over him. "Kiku…" He waits for their eyes to meet before continuing. "I just want you to know that I know what the safeword is for. I know I shouldn't have used it just so I could come—"

"The safeword is yours," Kiku says before Alfred can get further. "It is for whatever you need it to be."

Kiku waits for Alfred to nod before he leans in to brush his lips to Alfred's, responding favorably when Alfred deepens the once-chaste kiss.

Sitting back again, Kiku resumes his ministrations. When his fingers move towards Alfred's collarbone to tend the cigarette burn, Alfred wraps a hand around Kiku's wrist.

"Leave it. I want it to scar."

Kiku's eyes drop. "It will be very visible there."

Alfred takes his point. When he touches his cock, thumbing the head, Kiku's eyes widen briefly before he turns away. The shock Alfred sees in that fractional moment is enough to make his blood thrum; but it is also enough—because Alfred has surrendered; because it is Kiku—to stop Alfred from asking for that.

After a moment, he touches himself along the ridge of his hipbone. "What about here?"

Their eyes meet; Kiku nods. Alfred lights a new cigarette from the pack on the nightstand and takes a few tokes. Their fingers touch as Alfred passes off the cigarette to Kiku and lies back on the bed again. He tries not to arch too hard when Kiku touches the lit end to him, tries to hold himself still as the heat and ash are ground into him, burning off layers of skin. Kiku pulls away before reaching the bone, then bends to soothe the ruination with his tongue; Alfred's fingers tangle in Kiku's hair, keeping him from moving to Alfred's cock, holding him there in that kiss as Alfred strokes himself to a quick and violent orgasm.

When he releases Kiku, Alfred's watches his own fingers trail through come and ash and blood. He doesn't look at Kiku; he can't. He's sure he's put Kiku off now.

"Alfred," Kiku says as he moves up to lie beside Alfred, "would you like to play like this again sometime?"

Alfred smiles and smiles.

And that is how it begins.

 

After that first time, Alfred forgoes absolute authenticity in favor of quantity and builds up a stash of replica WWII uniforms. As Kiku promised from the start, each one is ruined, cut away from Alfred's body or torn in the course of a flogging or burned through by cigarettes, by acetylene torches masquerading to blindfolded eyes as WWII flamethrowers.

It only takes that first time for Alfred to discover his attraction to pain, the intensity of the release he finds in it. He even tries self-infliction when Kiku isn't around. And yep, there's a name for that, too—"algolagnia," the scholars of perversion call it; Alfred's word for it is "unsatisfying." It's not just the pain for Alfred, he discovers: it's the relinquishing of control, the letting go, of himself, of responsibility, of everything. It's the _surrender_.

The safeword is not Kiku's only moment of brilliance. Alfred figures out his desire for pain himself, but it's Kiku who notices the shiver that runs through Alfred's body when Kiku calls him a pain slut one time; it's Kiku who realizes which of those words makes Alfred flush so hotly. They think up scenes together, but it's Kiku who comes up with the idea that will undo Alfred beyond his imagination.

There's no interrogation this time. This time, Kiku just strips Alfred down to the skin. And then he shows Alfred a pair of thigh-high, lace-up leather boots and a corset to match. "The victorious nations are working hard for peace," Kiku explains. "It is not just the Axis; many nations have joined us."

When Alfred starts to ask what that has to do with the corset, Kiku strikes him across the face, hard enough to make his lashes flutter, his face coloring with more than impact. "Whores do not speak out of turn," Kiku says softly, patiently, stroking Alfred's cheek, his hand so cool against Alfred's flushed skin.

Then Kiku directs him to put on the clothing, suggesting that he do the boots first as they will be difficult once he has the corset on. Between the humiliation of the clothing and not knowing what is to come, Alfred's hands are shaking as he does up the bootlaces, but he succeeds anyhow and heroically. The corset is another matter entirely; he would need Kiku's help with that, even if he weren't shaking.

After Kiku finishes lacing up the corset, he backhands Alfred. "For your incompetence in dressing," he explains. "Please do better with the gloves."

Alfred opens his mouth to point out that he doesn't have any gloves, but thinks better of it and shut his mouth again wordlessly as Kiku leads him to a full-length mirror where Alfred is put on display to himself. There, Kiku hands him a pair of black satin elbow gloves. "If you cannot put these on by touch, you will look in the mirror for visual reference."

Alfred doesn't need the visual reference, but as he draws the gloves up his arms, he lets his gaze linger over his reflection anyhow.

He shakes out of his reverie when Kiku asks softly, as if reading his mind, "Do you think you look pretty?" Alfred starts to turn to him, but Kiku's hand closes on his chin, forcing his gaze back to the mirror. "Do you think you look pretty enough to please the members of the Unified Nations?"

Even as a commingled wave of fear and desire surges through him at Kiku's words, Alfred dares to correct him. "United. United Nations."

"No, Alfred. If you had won, it might have been called the United Nations. But you did not win. You lost." Kiku shifts his inflections between _you_ and _lost_ , weighting each softly, causing the knot in Alfred's belly to unravel, the ends surging up and pulling the knot tight again. "And yet you are not entirely worthless. You have some good ideas, like that one which we have taken and made our own.

"You have other uses, too." Another shift: as soft and silken as the gloves encasing Alfred's arms; soft and silken and tight. "Your body is useful. There are stresses on the mind that may be relieved by the body. As I told you before, the members of the Unified Nations are working very hard for the world. We do not wish to burden the world we are working so hard for, but we are in need of succor. Relief and release from our stress. Comfort.

"You, Alfred F. Jones, will provide that. You will be the comfort woman to the nations of the world. Or, if you prefer, our whore."

Alfred feels his blush fade as his blood rushes down to his cock even as a shiver moves up his spine. It's as if Kiku has removed the bones from his legs; his desire to sink to the ground is almost overwhelming—but he digs down deep on instinct and holds himself up. He feels his lips move soundlessly and doesn't know what he's saying.

But Kiku does: there's a subtle curve to Kiku's lips as he says—or maybe repeats back to Alfred—"Yes."

Now all trace of a smile disappears as Kiku binds Alfred in his favorite position, hands secured overhead to the ceiling hook. Then Kiku nudges Alfred's feet farther apart, past the attachment points for the ankles cuffs they've taken to using. Instead of bringing out the cuffs, Kiku shows Alfred a long metal bar. "A necessary precaution," Kiku explains as he affixes each end to one of Alfred's ankles, "in the event that you forget how to spread your legs for our pleasure." If anything, the words make Alfred want to spread his legs wider, but the spreader bar completely curtails any such movement.

The cock ring is different this time, too: an arab strap of leather to match the corset and boots instead of the usual simple rubber ring. After Kiku fastens it on Alfred, he steps aside and directs Alfred's gaze to the mirror again.

Alfred looks at—looks at the whore in the mirror, the one looking back at him with his face, with his eyes. The whore is kind of beautiful; as if the whore can hear Alfred telepathically, he blushes. The coloring of his cheeks and the darker blush of his cock make the whore even more beautiful, Alfred thinks. He lets his gaze wander over the whore's body, the lines, the curves, the leather that fits like skin, the flashes of actual skin, thighs and cock and chest. He memorizes the way the whore looks; memorizes the way the whore aches.

When Alfred finally closes his eyes, he feels Kiku remove his glasses and then tie on a silk blindfold. Then Kiku orders him to his knees, "the appropriate place for whores." Alfred tries to lower himself, but even though the chain holding his arms stretched overhead slackens, he finds it difficult to maneuver himself down; in the end, he needs Kiku's boot against his backside to force him to buckle, to put him in place: blindfolded and spread and bound, and now kneeling.

There is a stretch of quiet, during which Alfred can hear only his own breathing. Then he hears unidentifiable rustling. He doesn't think Kiku would _really_ invite anyone else to one of their scenes…but it is impossible to say for sure. He tries to imagine others there: there's a surge of emotions, too jumbled and bound up with each other for Alfred to name or separate. All he knows for sure is that it makes his pulse quicken; he feels the quickened pulse throb from the base of his cock to the head.

Then the question of what Kiku would do is answered as a cock—unmistakably silicone—brushes his lips. As Alfred opens his mouth for it, he identifies the pungency that accompanies it: sauerkraut. The swastika he imagines makes the arab strap dig into Alfred as his cock swells and he begins to suck off "Germany."

After a while, "Germany" withdraws; the next cockhead tastes of basil and olive oil, and as Alfred begins to fellate "Italy," he feels something—someone—"Germany" enter him from behind, both of them filling him now. Filling that beautiful whore from the mirror. Though he can't see the whore right now, Alfred can imagine what he looks like; oh, he can imagine it, and he does.

More of them come to him. As it goes on, as he is fucked in the mouth and the ass with different sized dildos, with different rhythms and techniques, with hints of taste and redolence, it becomes easy to yield to the "reality" that fantasy offers. It's easy for Alfred to believe he's being fucked by different cocks, by nations he knows. Some he can identify by the scents, like the tumeric and coconut milk of Thailand, the sachertorte chocolate and apricot of Austria, the emmentalar cheese of Switzerland, the baklavian honey of Greece; and some he isn't sure about. Some "nations" offer a word of praise afterwards, and if there is a Japanese intonation to their words, Alfred chooses not to notice. So too with the ones for whom he does not measure up, who spit in his face or laugh or offer an insulting critique of his skills. The bar makes sure he keeps his legs spread for all of them.

Then there is a hint of maple. Cold shock drips down inside him to mix with the hot, rising shame, and he's unable to stop himself from whispering Matthew's name.

"As you have been told," Kiku says with cool and deceptively infinite patience, "many nations have joined us since the capitulation of the Allied Forces."

Of course Alfred has recognized co-belligerents and neutral nations in addition to the Axis Powers; and yes, there even have been nations who fought on the same side as the Allies—but somehow he failed to anticipate _this_. Not _Canada_.

And not France, who comes after Canada; nor China who comes after him. As the Allies fuck him, the heat inside Alfred thickens, infusing his moans with a feverish breathlessness beyond that imposed by the restrictions of the corset.

Fabric brushes over his cock and he jerks, then strains for that touch again when he inhales vodka fumes with his next breath, his tongue darting out to lap at the fat cockhead held before his lips, curling around it as it fills his mouth. When that cockhead, slick with his own saliva, rubs along his asscrack, Alfred tries to lean forward to brace himself on his hands, to go down on all fours; tries to spread his legs wider; but his bindings hold him in place.

His lips part in a guttural moan—and a new cock pushes between them, past his teeth, the head caressing the roof of his mouth. Then it pulls out and Alfred catches the unmistakable aroma of crushed breakfast-tea leaves; his voice is broken by the breath he chokes on as he murmurs, " _oh—_ oh~ oh yeah—", cutting off to gag himself with the cock before him as the other continues to take him from behind.

Alfred comes hard, despite the arab strap and before he can surrender.

He says it anyhow when both of them withdraw from him. He says it again as Kiku releases his hands and he slumps forward on hands and knees as far as the corset will allow. Leaving his feet as they are even when Kiku removes the spreader bar, Alfred says it again. The blindfold comes off; Alfred keeps his eyes closed.

He feels Kiku kneel with him, but Alfred doesn't look up; not even when Kiku touches his face.

Again Alfred says it: "Surrender."

Without a word, Kiku gets him to his feet, gets him out of the strap, the corset, the boots. Without a word, Kiku leads him to bed. Wordlessly, Kiku lies with him, stroking his hair, his face. Kiku bends to press a kiss to Alfred's brow.

When Kiku leans back, they look at each other.

"Surrender," Alfred says.

"Yes," Kiku says.

It's the first time this degree of humiliation has been part of their playing. As they lie in bed, Alfred is embarrassed by the unheroic intensity of his response to it, but when Kiku asks if he would want it again some time, Alfred nods.

Kiku falls quiet again and continues to pet Alfred as he always does in the aftercare, but this time it fails to soothe Alfred. If anything, he grows more restless, finding it difficult to transition out of sub space, unable to locate himself in space and time. He knows he should get up, he should go, even though this is his house; he should go, he shouldn't drag Kiku down with him in this. But he doesn't seem able to make himself move.

Then Kiku takes him out of bed and leads him to another room, not the dungeon but a room in real space and time, and sets him on all fours. Even though Kiku slipped Alfred's glasses onto his face before they left the bedroom, Alfred doesn't really see anything; he closes his eyes so he won't have to try to focus.

"Please wait here, Alfred," Kiku says, and then Alfred hears him leave the room.

Alfred wants to get up and leave, too; and he wants just to crumple up here, to pull himself tighter and tighter around himself, so tight around himself nothing can get in and nothing can get out. There are things, too many and too much coming to the surface and he can't push it back down, can't find the safeword in it; can't find himself. So he holds onto the only thing he has, which is Kiku's instructions to stay as he is.

He is still on hands and knees when Kiku returns. When Kiku presses a hand against the back of Alfred's thighs and pushes lightly between Alfred's shoulder blades, Alfred goes into the new position unquestioningly. Something is set down on his back, there is the soft clinking of porcelain, and then he hears Kiku sit; when he feels Kiku's feet come to rest on his ass, Alfred realizes he has been shaped into a footrest and tea table.

He gives himself over to being the best tea table and footrest he can be. He meditates on it. It's relaxing to have no other demands upon him, to be nothing but this.

Time stops. Or, really, he himself stops and lets time go on without him. He lets time take his body on ahead without him and he exists like this, or he thinks he does, or he would think so, if he had thoughts.

He becomes aware of himself again with a touch: Kiku's foot stroking along his spine. With a sigh, Alfred arches into the touch on instinct—then catches and holds his breath to steady the tray as it shifts and the service items rattle. Kiku's foot leaves him, the tray is lifted from him, and Alfred steels himself for the chastising blow.

But it doesn't come. Instead, there is another touch, a hand soothing over Alfred's skin as Kiku kneels beside him.

The world shifts back into place around him as Alfred takes up his own body again. When Kiku's hand stops moving and Kiku says his name, Alfred is able to look over and smile. Kiku's smile is mostly in his eyes, but there are also traces of it in his fingertips as they brush over Alfred's skin one more time before Kiku sits back.

Alfred folds himself into a sitting position next to Kiku. He opens his mouth a few times, but only sucks on air.

"You don't have to speak," Kiku says, touching Alfred's arm lightly.

Alfred covers Kiku's hand then, and Kiku lets him.

Even before Kiku said anything, Alfred knew Kiku wouldn't insist that he talk; but he also knew Kiku would let him, and Alfred finds he needs to. No matter how he pushes at them, the thoughts inside him won't retreat back into inarticulation. Those things, the ones he can barely admit to himself and then only in his darkest and most secret moments, now demand recognition and witness. And so Alfred confesses to Kiku his fears—of abandonment, of betrayal.

It all started with Arthur. This is so obvious that Alfred doesn't get beyond choking out his name.

Ivan is another matter.

Alfred doesn't think anyone knows how much he loved, _loved_ Ivan. What it meant to him that Ivan stood by him when he was falling apart, that Ivan supported him and wanted him whole. Ivan was the only one. Not Arthur, who wanted Alfred to fall apart at first, even if he did come around in the end. Not Arthur and not any of them; only Ivan. Some of them have told him since then not to dwell on it, that he'd have survived no matter what, there'd have still been America. But Alfred isn't just America, he's the _United States_ of America, and even if he'd survived being ripped apart, he'd never have been whole again, and that's why he says Ivan—the only one who supported the North—is the only one who supported _him_.

Oh, Alfred loved Ivan so much in those days! Ivan who was somehow familiar and somehow strange. Ivan who let Alfred take him to the redwoods, the mountains; who stood with Alfred beneath cloudless skies, gazing out over amber waves of grain—until Alfred turned to him and saw Ivan's eyes closed and he realized that, though so much about it was different, those waves nevertheless reminded Ivan of the steppes of Mongolia. Alfred took Ivan's hand then, brought him out of the past and into the present, brought him into tall cornfields; remembering something else about Ivan then, Alfred took him to the sunflower fields.

In those sunflower fields, in those days, Ivan said things, he told Alfred things, and Alfred believed him. He told Ivan things, too: he told Ivan all the things he believed in, and Ivan laughed, bright and soft, and when Alfred looked at him in question, Ivan said, "You are so passionate about your ideals," and Alfred said, "Of course!", and Ivan said, "This is why I love you so." Alfred just looked and looked at him, and Ivan came to him, took Alfred's face in both his hands, gently turned Alfred's face up to him like a sunflower turning to the sun: "I love you," Ivan said, and Alfred didn't say anything. He stretched and curled and arched in sunflower fields with Ivan, but he never said anything, he didn't even whisper it when he was sure Ivan was asleep beside him.

Alfred doesn't know if anyone knows how much he loved Ivan, anyone besides himself and now Kiku. He doesn't know if Ivan even knows. He hopes Ivan doesn't know; he fears Ivan does.

It doesn't matter. That's what Alfred tells Kiku now. It doesn't matter, because Ivan turned socialist and then communist, and Alfred wanted to trust Ivan even if he didn't love him anymore; but then the second world war ended, and the world ripped in two in the aftermath. Most everyone calls it ideology and ideological differences, but Alfred's heart knows betrayal when he encounters it, like he did after the end of WWII.

Alfred hates the color red. He hates it in ideologies and he hates it in coats; he hates it so much that sometimes he wishes his own blood wasn't red but an alien color like green or purple.

When he pauses for breath, Alfred thinks Kiku's probably going to laugh at him. Or at least at the alien blood thing.

But Kiku only rubs a thumb along Alfred's arm.

Alfred thought he was done, but now that he's started, he can't seem to stop. Part of him doesn't even want to, and Alfred can't tell if it's the part that wants to be closer to Kiku or the part that wants to push Kiku away—but it doesn't really matter, because he can't stop anyhow.

He describes his fear of and yearning for isolation. Alfred doesn't know if it's the same for Kiku, but he thinks Kiku probably understands. He thinks Kiku understands that's why the persistence of Matthew's friendship with Ivan causes Alfred so much anxiety, he has to ignore Matthew sometimes.

The only reason Alfred doesn't have to shut Kiku out is because Alfred has already done the most terrible thing to Kiku, and Kiku is still here.

Alfred touches him. He touches the radiation scars. Kiku lets him.

When Alfred goes quiet, all Kiku says is, "I wondered which of them it would be."

Alfred is about to ask what Kiku means, then realizes he already knows, even if he doesn't want to. He says it anyhow: "You mean Ivan or Arthur?"

Kiku nods.

"Yeah," Alfred says, knowing that it isn't really an answer but unwilling to the point of unable, at last, to say more. If Kiku guesses that Alfred sometimes chokes himself with a scarf when he's jerking off, he doesn't say so; Kiku can be counted on like that.

Alfred doesn't want to talk anymore, and Kiku doesn't seem to require a response; yeah, Kiku can be counted on.

There are no more words, or if there are, Alfred doesn't have them. All he has is a dream and a memory, each one as terrible and impossible as the other. All he has is a dream and a memory, and Kiku. Kiku, who wants to protect Alfred's smile, and is willing to cut him open to do it. Kiku, who is better than love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who like Ivan, [Fields of Sunflowers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/143280) shows the period of Alfred's and Ivan's time together that Alfred tells Kiku about, this time from Ivan's POV.


	2. Chapter 2

Though humiliation becomes a regular part of their play and sometimes all it takes is being called a whore for Alfred to come, they never do a scene like that again.

Even without that intensity, Kiku continues to give Alfred what he needs and Alfred continues—every time, eventually and without fail, sooner or later—to surrender to Kiku. Kiku was right in his promise when it began: Alfred needs the safeword. He may not be in love with Kiku, but oh, he is love with the surrendering.

Alfred has not surrendered yet today. His arms are stretched, hands bound overhead, and his legs are spread and anchored to the floor, but Alfred is on his feet, not his knees. Today he is not a whore but a POW. He is a _hero_ , and no amount of blows laid across his back and ass and thighs with a bamboo cane, no amount of lashes to his chest and cock with a quirt—no, nothing can beat that out of him. So when Kiku removes the cloth gag from between Alfred's teeth now and says, "Do you wish to surrender?", Alfred looks him in the eye.

"Never," he spits out confidently. They both know what Alfred really means: that he isn't close yet. He even dares to smile.

"You may be closer than you think." Serenity, _that_ serenity, smoothes over Kiku's face; it coats the words as they drop from Kiku's lips; it wipes the smile off of Alfred's lips. "I have a surprise for you today that you may find—unpleasant."

As Kiku turns and walks from the room, the understated but unmistakable threat of those words thrills through Alfred. He tries to imagine what sort of new toy Kiku is bringing back, but finds greater excitement in the not knowing and stops guessing. Since Kiku didn't put the gag back on, Alfred listens to his own breathing thickening with the same anticipation that's coiling tight and heavy in his balls.

The door to the room is open and Alfred's cock jumps when he hears footsteps returning. Then he realizes there is not just one set of footfalls but two. Despite the steel band encircling its base, his cock throbs with a rush of blood. He can't tell if that second set of "footsteps" is a high quality recording or some other trick, but it doesn't matter. Even though his head knows it's a mindfuck, his body aches and thrums with the memory of the Unified Nations; the scenario is different this time, of course, but Alfred thinks—he thinks maybe Kiku has brought "others" to interrogate and break him. He moistens his lips so they won't crack when he puts on a heroic smile for his "captors."

The smile has started to curve Alfred's open mouth when Kiku reenters the room—

And then freezes when Arthur walks in.

Alfred tries to wake up, but he can't.

He can't, because this is not a dream.

Alfred's frozen smile fades as his mouth opens more, wordlessly, breathlessly.

Arthur, too, is silent as their gazes lock.

Something lodges in Alfred's throat. Dimly, he thinks it might be a word, but he can't get it to come out far enough for his tongue to wrap around it, for his mouth to shape it into articulation. Something else, not a word, presses hotly behind his eyes and he wants to close them so whatever it is won't get out, but Arthur is looking at him. Looking at him and looking at him, and Alfred can't look away. With a sickening tilt, the world spins him out of his body just long enough so that he sees what Arthur is seeing: he sees himself—naked and bound. Flushed with shame. Flushed with arousal.

The word in Alfred's throat breaks free, rises up not to his lips but into his mind, and it's not the word he thought it would be:

_Please. Please. Please._

They don't speak as they cross to him. Kiku walks past to stand somewhere behind him. As Arthur comes to a stop in front of him, the 'please' fades from Alfred; all there is, is the soft oceanic rush of his own pulse.

Then Arthur leans in, closer, closer, so close Alfred has to shut his eyes. He feels Arthur's hand on his chin, angling him to meet Arthur's eyes if he were to open his own; keeping him tilted so he feels Arthur's breath against his lips. He strives to remember himself, the situation he's in, and chews on the inside of his lip to remind himself not to open his mouth.

But when Arthur's hand lets go of his chin and moves to the back of Alfred's head, not holding him in place but tangling in his hair, and when Arthur's tongue sweeps along the seam of Alfred's lips, pushing wetly against it, Alfred forgets everything except how to breathe. He parts his lips and breathes, and Arthur's tongue slips in, and as their mouths fit together, as their breaths mingle, Alfred yields himself to the kiss.

As Arthur moves back at the end of the kiss, his teeth cling to Alfred's lower lip—and then bite down hard and sharp before a quick tug on his hair forces Alfred's head back. At the taste of his own blood, Alfred feels his cock swell. His legs want to buckle, but he locks his knees and meets Arthur's gaze as Arthur draws back enough so they can look at each other again.

Alfred can't read Arthur's expression as Arthur reaches for him, the back of his gloved fingers stroking Alfred's cheek. Then Arthur covers his mouth with another kiss; his hand unfolds as it slips down from Alfred's jaw to tuck up under his chin, fingers wrapping around Alfred's throat as Arthur cups it, applying slow pressure while they kiss so that even though Alfred remembers how to breathe, he can't. He starts to choke on the unbreathed inhales and exhales that can't get past Arthur's hand or tongue, struggling against an encroaching blackness darker than the one behind his still-closed eyelids, struggling, failing, succumbing…

—and coming to, his desperate inhale cut short by the impact of Arthur's hand, slapping him across the face for what Alfred guesses must be the second or maybe third time. When he seems satisfied that Alfred is alert, Arthur adjusts Alfred's glasses, which had been knocked askew by the slaps, then steps back and looks Alfred up and down; Alfred shivers hotly under the gaze.

"Do you know why I'm here?"

When Alfred doesn't say anything immediately, he feels the sharp sting of Kiku's forgotten quirt across his backside; he can't stop his hips from jerking forward, but he does manage to suppress a moan when his teeth dig into his lip in the exact spot where Arthur's had drawn blood.

Alfred doesn't know if there's an answer to Arthur's question. Just because Kiku and Arthur are demanding one doesn't mean there is one. He looks at Arthur, who is standing and looking at him and waiting, and it almost makes Alfred feel like a child again. Instinct and memories make Alfred want to fidget—but he's not a child anymore. He lifts his head higher and looks at Arthur; he looks down at Arthur who is looking up at him. An extra step back by Arthur can't change the fact that Alfred is tall enough Arthur needs to look up at him. Alfred looks down at Arthur, who is waiting and looking at him and standing there in his WWII uniform. Too late, Alfred remembers that a hero wouldn't let a shiver, even one as heated as this, thrill through him so visibly.

"You've—" Alfred starts, but he's too slow for the liking of Kiku, who strikes him again. He takes a deep breath and resumes, "You've betrayed the Allies."

He steels himself, but instead of feeling another lash he feels the tip of the handle against his jaw, forcing him to turn his head to Kiku, who has moved to his side. "No, Alfred. That would be impossible. How could England betray those who have made the same choice?"

"You're lying," Alfred says automatically, his mouth going dry even though he knows, he _knows_ it's not a matter of truth or lies, it's a scene, it's _play_.

"He's not," Arthur says.

The whip handle drops, allowing Alfred to look at Arthur as he continues, "We all betrayed you."

Alfred's lips move; he can't hear himself, but Arthur reads the words. "Yes, _I_. I betrayed you, Alfred. But don't forget that you betrayed me first."

With that, Arthur turns his back on Alfred and starts walking away.

The wave of confusion that rolls through Alfred at Arthur's words washes away his shock at seeing Arthur here. "I didn't betray you. I know it took a while for me to enter the war, but—" The furrow deepens. "But I was always on your side, Arthur."

Arthur whirls and, with incredibly quick strides, closes the distance back to Alfred. Grabbing Alfred's chin roughly, Arthur wrenches his head down. The dark fire Alfred sees in Arthur's eyes when their gaze connects sears through him, burning the oxygen from his lungs.

"That's _Great Britain_ to you, whelp." With another twisting jerk, Arthur releases Alfred and turns on heel without waiting for a response.

He doesn't walk out of the room, though; instead, he goes to the wall screen set up in the opposite corner and disappears behind it.

With Arthur's words echoing in his mind, Alfred stares at the screen and tries to figure out what just happened; what's happening now.

Then Arthur's hand appears as he flings up his jacket to drape over the top of the screen. The blood must have drained from Alfred's face when Arthur grabbed him just then, because now Alfred feels it come rushing back.

Hearing the shifting of feet, Alfred glances to the side—and meets Kiku's eyes. His blush deepens a shade as he realizes he forgot Kiku was there. Kiku can stand for hours and hours and hours without moving, without making a sound, so Alfred knows that shifting was deliberate. That it was for him. Alfred doesn't smile, though: the serenity on Kiku's face is not telling Alfred that everything is okay; it's telling him that everything is going to get worse—if Alfred wants it to.

WWII POW and hero Alfred F. Jones faces forward, a glint in his eye, a smile on his face, ready for anything.

Arthur—England—the treacherous Great Britain is taking a long time behind the screen. Alfred doesn't know what this show of modesty is for—unless maybe it's about the anticipation. Which Alfred is definitely feeling.

The wait goes on. The silence is becoming unnerving, but Alfred doesn't break it; it's not his to break. He tries not to let it undo his nerves entirely. Anticipation steeping, he focuses himself on what is to come, preparing himself mentally for the moment that Arthur steps out naked from behind the screen.

When Arthur steps out, he is not naked.

He is in uniform.

Redcoat uniform.

Alfred feels himself open up inside, hollowed out.

As Great Britain walks towards him, an ache rushes up to fill Alfred's emptiness, consuming him.

Arthur comes to stand in front of Alfred again, not as close this time; just out of reach. Always out of reach. This time Arthur doesn't need to touch Alfred to make Alfred meet his eyes, smoldering with that dark fire. "I will ask you again: do you understand why I'm here?"

Alfred knows he's a POW, he knows he's lost the war—but he isn't sure which war anymore. "I didn't betray you," he whispers.

Arthur's eyes flicker, but he doesn't say anything.

It's Kiku who says, "You left the British Empire."

Fixed in Arthur's gaze, Alfred swallows but doesn't even try to look away. "But I didn't abandon you. I…" _I've always been here…_

"America has been restored to Britain," Alfred hears Kiku say. "Both sides have agreed to this as part of the treaty."

"I didn't—" Alfred starts.

"The Axis," Kiku says, "And the Allies."

The words tear Alfred's gaze from Arthur and give it to Kiku. " _I'm_ one of the Allies." Alfred can barely hear his own voice.

Kiku hears him, though. "You have been given every opportunity to capitulate, which would have earned you a place in the negotiations. Your continued refusal has, instead, earned you this."

" _That_ is why I'm here," Arthur says, and Alfred's gaze is drawn back to him. "I _own_ you."

The words shockwave through Alfred, making his ache vibrate. He knows he needs to say something here. There's _something_ he's supposed to say. There's a word… "I'm the hero." True as those words are, they don't feel like the something. He swallows, shivers, blinks without looking away. "I'm—you don't—"

"But I do," Arthur says. "Did you learn nothing from that kiss?" Arthur practically spits the last word. When Alfred doesn't say anything, Arthur takes a step closer, though he doesn't raise his hand, doesn't raise his voice. "Then let me explain in words even _you_ can understand.

"I own and control your very breath. I own and control your entire body."

Alfred wants to deny it, but he can't seem to.

Arthur's lips curl into a sneer as he continues to look at Alfred. "It would seem our hero is speechless, Kiku."

"Could it be that his mouth is dry?" Kiku suggests, coming to stand beside Arthur.

"Perhaps you're right," Arthur says. Hand raised to his chin thoughtfully, elbow supported by his other hand, Arthur narrows his eyes as he looks at Alfred now. "In which case we ought to remedy that. I believe he wants a cup of tea."

"Then it is good I have prepared some," Kiku says. Although both of them are looking right at him, Alfred somehow feels as if he's not quite here.

Arthur continues to look at Alfred when Kiku steps away, and Alfred continues to meet his gaze because he doesn't know where else to look. Even when Arthur breaks the gaze, Alfred keeps looking at him. Although Arthur has looked away from Alfred's eyes, he hasn't looked away from Alfred: his gaze travels down over Alfred's body. Alfred's naked body. When the hint of a sneer curls at the corner of Arthur's mouth, Alfred realizes Arthur is looking at his cock. Heat floods Alfred's face; his blush is probably a good match for the shade of Arthur's coat.

Kiku is taking forever with the tea. Alfred forces himself not to shift in his bonds. He has never wanted a cup of tea so badly in his life.

At last Kiku returns with the tray and pours out the tea, two cups from one pot and the third cup from a different one. Alfred changes his mind. He doesn't think he wants any tea, after all. As Kiku steps to him with that third cup, Alfred starts to turn his head away—but Arthur moves in quickly, grabbing a handful of Alfred's hair just above the nape to hold him still and pinching his nose shut with the other hand. When Alfred can't hold his breath any longer and opens his mouth to suck in air, he only gets a little oxygen before hot liquid is poured into his mouth.

Alfred expects to get burned, but the temperature is perfect for a hot beverage. Even when using it as an instrument of torment, Kiku and Arthur are respectful of tea.

Then Alfred remembers one time Kiku was not respectful; his cock remembers, too. He tries to remember what that tea tasted like, tries to remember if there was any tell to the drug he might detect this time. There's a weird saltiness to it, which isn't at all how Alfred remembers the other tea. He spits it out.

Releasing Alfred's hair, Arthur picks up a napkin from the tray and looks down to dab at the spray that hit his coat. "I suppose I oughtn't be surprised that you can't manage on your own even a basic task such as drinking."

"We did discuss the possibility," Kiku reminds him.

"So we did." They smile at one another, and then Kiku walks behind Alfred again. Alfred resists the urge to try to see what Kiku's doing. He has a pretty good guess, anyhow, that Kiku is preparing a baby bottle for him.

Arthur is looking at him silently. Silently, Alfred meets his gaze. He takes a deep breath, and then another. Okay, he can do this. He's figured them out. He's smarter than they think he is. He's survived this far, and he'll keep surviving. He's the _hero_ , after all. Alfred smiles; and smiles more when Arthur doesn't.

His grin fades when he follows Arthur's line of sight to Kiku—who is not holding a baby bottle. It's a funnel. With a rubber tube and leather straps dangling from it, a large metal buckle at the end of one of the straps.

Alfred has worn other open-mouth gags, but never one like this. Kiku hands the funnel gag to Arthur and then goes behind Alfred again; Alfred feels his overhead restraints slacken.

"On your knees, hero," Arthur says.

Kiku's foot against the back of Alfred's knee ensures his compliance. When Alfred's kneeling, Kiku lets his hands down entirely, then kneels himself to secure Alfred's wrist restraints to the ankle attachments.

"Do you have anything to say?" Gag in hand, Arthur steps closer.

Alfred shakes his head.

He thinks about trying to resist when Arthur presses the rubber tubing extending from the spout to his lips, but he knows it would just be the same as with the teacup, so he opens his mouth voluntarily.

"Good boy," Arthur says.

 _Man_ , Alfred wants to say: he's taking this like a _man_. But he can't say anything, because the mouthpiece is inside him, the leather straps are being fit snug across his cheeks to hold it there; the metal of the fastened buckle is cool against the back of his neck.

While Arthur puts the gag on him, Alfred hears furniture being moved; the funnel blocks some of his vision, but he has enough peripheral vision to see Kiku sit in one of the chairs he brought over.

When Arthur is satisfied with the gag's fit, he sits in the other chair. "Would you like to pour, or shall I?"

Kiku allows Arthur the honor—and even as Alfred hears the words pass between them, he feels a rush of hot liquid hit the back of his tongue and slide down his throat. The flow is perfect, not too fast which would choke him, but not so slow that he has a chance to do anything but keep swallowing, and swallowing, and swallowing.

As he swallows continuously, Alfred hears something that sounds like paper, the turning of pages; and then he hears Arthur ask what Kiku is reading. A furrow forms on Alfred's brow as he listens to them discuss the book, a novel by someone Alfred's never heard of. Their tones are relaxed. Conversational. As if nothing is happening but tea and literary discussion, as if they are not pouring tea down his throat as he kneels naked before them. As if they are just two old friends enjoying each other's company.

Two old friends—or two old allies. They never told him exactly when Arthur betrayed him, Alfred realizes. Maybe it wasn't just a betrayal but a deception. Maybe the Anglo-Japanese Alliance was never severed. Maybe the Four-Power Treaty and everything that came with it, after it—maybe it was all a lie.

Arthur is talking now, telling Kiku about the book he's been reading. Something about geological formations and bodies of water. "Did you know that there are loads of different names for estuaries?" he's asking Kiku. "Bays, lagoons, harbors, sounds. They're all considered estuaries if freshwater mixes with saltwater. The way the Neponset and Weymouth Rivers mix with the tidal currents of the Atlantic in Boston Harbor, for example."

Alfred's eyes widen. His throat burns with the tinge of salt from before; his face burns, too.

The flow doesn't stop as Arthur turns to him fully, leaning so that Alfred can see him when he slides his gaze to the side; coming closer so Alfred has to see him or shut his eyes.

Alfred expects a sneer to curl Arthur's lips again—but no. "Yes, dear boy," Arthur says with his unsmiling mouth, the dark fire returned to his eyes burning Alfred more hotly than his own blood. "You're going to drink every drop of the fine tea you so carelessly tossed into your harbor."

When Alfred starts to shake his head, he feels Arthur's hand snug beneath his jaw. "Swallow," Arthur says softly, as soft as the open curl of his hand against Alfred's skin, "or I'll choke you on it."

Alfred swallows. He swallows and swallows and swallows, heroically; helplessly. Heroically, he doesn't look away from Arthur's gaze; he's caught in it, helplessly.

When the last drop has been poured down his throat, Arthur removes the gag and goes to put it away as Kiku drags Alfred to his feet again, once more securing his hands overhead. Alfred takes a steadying breath, and then another. There's an awful lot of tea sloshing around in him, but he's not worried; he's always had a cast iron bladder.

Then Arthur comes back. In his hands is a long, thin, flexible rubber tube.

As he watches Arthur uncoil the tubing, Alfred notices that one end has a rounded tip and a slightly raised area. His gaze travels the length of the tube to the other end. When he sees the valve and bulb, Alfred knows he's looking at a Foley catheter.

The realization thrums in him. He and Kiku have experimented with sounding. Kiku even hooked up the sounding rod to a TENS unit during one "interrogation"; the memory pulses through Alfred's cock.

But this—this is different. Catheterization goes deeper inside than sounding, it's more invasive…

"Have you already forgotten what I told you?"

Alfred is shaken out of his thoughts by Arthur's words—which seem, strangely, almost telepathically, to come in response to Alfred's musings. Arthur waits for Alfred's eyes to meet his before he continues: "I own you. I control you. Nothing belongs to you, Alfred—least of all your own body. It will be easier for you when you accept this."

Inarticulate emotions tangle together as they rise up in Alfred. He knows there are words and thoughts caught in what he's feeling. He knows there are all sorts to things he could say, things he _should_ say. But when he opens his mouth, he can only manage a single word: "No."

"No?" Arthur arches an eyebrow. "Nevertheless, whether or not you accept it, you _will_ be made to understand."

As Arthur turns to the tray now, Alfred sees that the tea has been replaced with medical equipment: a hypodermic syringe, a clamp, a pair of latex gloves. A small bottle that, label-side out, is unmistakably lube; even Alfred's cock recognizes it.

There's also a bowl, and that's what Arthur's reaching for first. With one hand, he squeezes excess suds and water from a washcloth he takes out of the bowl; in the other, he takes Alfred's cock.

Hot. Alfred's cock is hot, his face is hot, his blood is hot as it rushes through his veins and arteries, his organs, the marrow of his bones. He shivers, the air around him and the hand touching him so much cooler than Alfred himself is. A confusion of misery and arousal vibrates through Alfred's heat, making him shiver again. This is the first time Arthur has touched him like this, and even if it's not exactly the way he has dreamed of it, it's still a touch, a _real_ touch, Arthur's naked hand on Alfred's naked cock. And despite everything, despite the scene, despite _himself_ , Alfred wants that touch. Closing his eyes, he tries to shut out his awareness of everything else, even the rest of his body, his bound wrists and ankles, and exist only in that touch.

Then, fleeting as a dream, the touch is gone. When Alfred opens his eyes, Arthur reaches for him again. But instead of holding Alfred in his hand, instead of touching him, Arthur touches the band of the cock ring. Traces it. "I will not have you orgasm."

Alfred doesn't know where his words come from, doesn't even know he's saying them until he hears them: "What if I do?" Hearing the challenge in his own voice, Alfred searches for a heroic quirk for his mouth.

But Arthur smiles first. "You and your bollocks, little America. I do like the way they hang on you." He gives them a glance more appraising than appreciative, it seems to Alfred. "But if you can't control them, I shan't mind seeing how they look sitting in a jar on my chimneypiece."

The implication, the soft smiling threat rushes through Alfred; he doesn't know whether the sensation in his cock is one of going soft or getting harder; he doesn't look down to find out.

He doesn't look down when Arthur touches him again, not when he feels Arthur's hand, not when he feels the wet warmth of the washcloth. When he feels the cool, viscous slick of lube on his cockhead, his hips buck slightly before he stills himself, but he still doesn't look.

He doesn't even look when the tip of the catheter touches his cockhead, rubs along the slit.

Now Alfred finds the tender flesh where Arthur's teeth dug into his lip in that first kiss of theirs. Biting down, he opens his eyes to watch as Arthur slowly, slowly but surely, begins to push in.

As the catheter enters Alfred, he feels himself being opened and filled at the same time. Arthur doesn't pause to let him adjust; Arthur just keeps feeding the tube into him, twisting at the wrist, pushing the tube deeper and deeper. It seems like Arthur knows what he's doing. Like he's done this before. As he feels the catheter slide along inside him, Alfred wonders if Arthur has anyone's balls on his mantel. The thought should be funny or horrifying; it shouldn't make him blush.

Enough tubing has disappeared that Alfred knows it's gone the length of his cock, and beyond. It must be near his prostate now, going past it, even deeper in. This is much farther than Kiku has ever gone with a sounding rod. Alfred wants to shift but he knows it's a bad idea to move in such a delicate situation as this, and his restraints wouldn't allow for much, anyhow, so he holds himself as still as he can. He wants to look at Arthur's face, but that seems like a bad idea, too. He looks at Arthur's hands, working the rubber tube into Alfred, holding Alfred's cock—and that seems like a worse idea. His gaze goes up Arthur's gloved hand, over the cuff of his uniform coat, up onto the red of the sleeve.

Alfred focuses on nothing; focuses on red.

Then he feels a pinch. Brow furrowed, his gaze snaps down to Arthur's hands and his own cock again, even though he knows the pinch isn't anywhere he can see it. He does see that Arthur's fingers have stopped moving; the tube is still now.

"Alfred."

At that, Alfred looks into Arthur's face without thinking—and finds himself trapped in Arthur's gaze again.

"I need you to relax, Alfred." Even though Arthur has spent all this time explaining to Alfred how Arthur controls him, this feels like a request, not a command.

Or a trick. An illusion of kindness; another deception. Because Arthur's next words make Alfred want to close up: "You're going to have to open your bladder so I can get in. Do you understand what that means?" When Alfred doesn't respond, Arthur says in the same patient tone, "You're going to have urinate for me, just a little."

Alfred chews the inside of his lip.

"Oh, Alfred. Some things never change, do they? As I recall, you needed incentive with your toilet training, too."

Alfred has no memory of his toilet training, so he doesn't know whether this is a truth or a lie; it doesn't matter, though—either would be enough to make him blush more darkly, as he does now.

Arthur smiles as he studies Alfred's face. "I think I know the thing for you this time." Before Alfred can contemplate the threat in Arthur's smile, Arthur leans up and kisses him.

Touching Alfred's mouth with his own, Arthur licks his lips, licks inside when Alfred parts them, breathes into his mouth; breathes against his ear, murmuring for Alfred to relax~, relax~; kisses his mouth again and Alfred feels himself open just a little bit before he can stop himself—only a little bit; enough for the catheter to slip in.

Alfred knows the catheter has entered his bladder, because he feels the flow of urine start.

And stop.

Alfred's eyes are still closed, not from the kiss but because he didn't want to see the expression on Arthur's face when Arthur stepped back from it. But he opens them now and sees the clamp latched onto the tubing, shutting down the flow. With his other hand, Arthur tugs the tubing, and then lets go of it when it stays in place.

Sure that Arthur is going to lecture him or provide a running commentary as he strips away Alfred's dignity, Alfred does his best to prepare himself; to prepare his smile, his best retort.

But Arthur is silent as he works the clamp. He toys with it, stopping only to start again. At first Alfred feels as if the flow is being forced from him; but as the tea starts to exert pressure, Arthur's control turns from force to the granting of release.

Even though Alfred hasn't been gagged, he doesn't talk. But there isn't silence, because Arthur opens the outside end of the catheter and lets it drain into a bucket, the _tink_ ing dulled against the old-fashioned, wooden sides. Just like the kind of bucket Alfred used to play with as a kid. He can't stop the shame that washes through him any more than he can stop the urine flushing out of him.

Then Arthur clamps down again, and this time doesn't let up. The pressure mounts in Alfred. The fingers of his bound hands splay and then close in helpless fists, short nails digging into his palms. His nerves are humming, sending vibrations through him, frustration, desperation, humiliation—

His nerves _sing_.

Alfred is awash in confusion when Arthur releases the clamp now, releases the flow, releases _Alfred_. The relief he feels with this release is intense; he cannot escape the pleasure of it.

Alfred is overwhelmed. But he doesn't give up. He will not give up.

Finally, his bladder is emptied; the flow stops and Arthur removes the clamp. "Do you understand yet? Or is another lesson in order?" Arthur shifts to the side, and Alfred sees Kiku standing there with a new pot of tea, the funnel gag beside it on the tray.

Comprehension is not capitulation, Alfred tells himself. To Arthur, he says, "Yes." He fights himself not to drop his eyes, and wins. "I get it."

Arthur smiles. Alfred's blush worsens.

The catheter is as slow coming out as it was going in. Again his stimulated nerves thrum with the slick friction, with vibrations that almost feel like orgasm, but aren't.

Alfred can't help noticing, once the catheter has been removed completely, that he's still hard. Harder, maybe. There's no way Arthur can miss it, either, since he's handling Alfred's cock to wash him, to dry him. Alfred doesn't watch this time.

When Arthur steps back, done, Alfred opens his eyes but can't bring himself to look at Arthur. Sliding to the side, his gaze alights on the shine of the brass doorknob; Alfred fixes himself there while he searches inside for any dignity that might be left to him.

"What are you—" Arthur breaks off, and in Alfred's periphery he sees Arthur turn towards the door, too. "Ah, I see." Arthur turns to Alfred again. "You must understand that no one is coming to rescue you. Must I remind you of what you’ve been told? Two of your allies have capitulated already; one, like me, gave you up."

A new wave of confusion, colder than before, hits Alfred. He doesn't recall the exact words they used before, but he is absolutely certain this is not what they said.

Before any articulate thoughts can form in his head, Alfred's attention is captured by Arthur's hand.

Arthur doesn't touch Alfred. He touches himself, undoing his redcoat, pushing it back so Alfred can see the pistol tucked into his waistband. Alfred wonders if they're going to duel. His brow furrows—

And then is washed smooth by a cold wave of realization as Arthur unholsters the pistol and holds it up, fingers spread so Alfred has as unobstructed a view of it as possible, so he can see it's not a Revolutionary-era flintlock at all. It's a WWII-era pistol. It's a TT-33.

"Do you understand what this means?" Arthur asks.

The sensation that floods Alfred, annihilating words, is not just fear: it is dread. For a moment, he can only think in pictures. What Alfred sees in this moment is that the Tokarev TT-33 is not just a WWII-era pistol. It is the quintessential Russian pistol of that era.

Yes, Alfred understands very well what Arthur is insinuating.

But it is only insinuation, isn't it? Surely they haven't actually invited Ivan here? They haven't _actually_ betrayed him…have they?

The sharp sting of a slap across his cheek refocuses Alfred. "I asked you a question," Arthur says, "and you will respond."

Arthur doesn't repeat the question, but Alfred doesn't need him to. It takes some work to moisten his mouth enough, but Arthur seems to understand what Alfred is up to, and waits for him to be able to speak. "Yes," Alfred chokes out when he can.

"Are you ready to give up?"

This time the pause is shorter before Alfred manages a "no."

Arthur looks at him for a long moment. Even though Arthur's gaze is fixed on his face, Alfred is more aware than ever of being naked. Looking away won't change that, so Alfred holds Arthur's gaze as steadily as he can.

"Very well," Arthur says at last. "You brought this on yourself. You're such a little slut for your ideals, aren't you."

Alfred think Arthur really does control his body, the way he pulls the breath out of Alfred with those words, the way he makes Alfred's heart lose rhythm, stealing a beat from him.

Then there are footsteps outside the room, and Alfred is sure his pulse and breath have stopped entirely, or maybe it's the spin of the earth itself that has stopped.

But it's not Ivan who enters the room. Everything—the world, time, Alfred's heart and lungs—starts again as Kiku crosses to Arthur and hands him a bottle of water. Alfred wonders when he left. He's chagrined at his slip-up; a hero should never be so unaware.

"I told you he wouldn't bend so easily, Arthur."

Arthur doesn't take his eyes off Alfred. "Yes, you were right in that, as in so many other things." Uncapping the bottle Kiku gave him, Arthur raises it to his lips and approaches Alfred.

Expecting Arthur to spit in his face, Alfred is so surprised when Arthur swallows and holds the bottle to Alfred's mouth that he doesn't respond. "Drink," Arthur says, tipping the bottle so that water touches Alfred's lips. The water spills, wasted, onto Alfred's skin, onto the floor. "Drink," Arthur repeats. "It's not drugged. You just saw me drink some, myself." The plastic mouth presses insistently to Alfred's lips. "Whether you—whether you capitulate or not, we can't have you doing yourself in due to dehydration."

"We are not done with you yet," Kiku adds serenely.

Alfred parts his lips and lets Arthur pour the water into his mouth, slowly, letting him swallow in his own time; pouring more when Alfred's lips part again.

When Arthur takes the bottle away, Alfred smiles. They may not be done with him yet, but there's no way they'll break him now. They've played the Red Menace card and it was a bluff; if they're bluffing, they must not have any cards left to play. Alfred, on the other hand, is aces. That's what it means to be the hero.

Arthur is studying him. Alfred smiles more.

He smiles even more when Arthur levels the gun at him.

Then Arthur steps forward so Alfred can't see the gun properly; so Alfred can almost, but not quite, feel it. "Open." When Alfred doesn't comply immediately, Arthur says, "Do you know what will happen to you if I have to repeat myself?"

"You can't fool me," Alfred says. "It's not loaded." He cocks his grin at Arthur.

Arthur doesn't smile.

Kiku is smiling, though, as he takes the pistol from Arthur's hand. Arthur doesn't look away from Alfred, so Alfred doesn't look away from Arthur. But in his peripheral vision, he sees Kiku load the magazine, one cartridge after another, and then snap the magazine into place. He pulls back on the slide and lets it slide forward fully before he hands it back to Arthur.

Arthur's jaw clenches and unclenches. Unblinking, he brings up the gun and places the muzzle to Alfred's lips.

"Open," he says softly. So softly.

Alfred does.

The metal is cool on his tongue. As Arthur begins to slide it out and in again, in and out and in, Alfred feels the sliding along his tongue, feels it against his teeth; he swallows, and feels it slide through him, down to his belly, down to his balls. He curls his tongue around the sliding. He wants to close his eyes, but he also wants to keep looking into Arthur's, letting Arthur look into him.

Even though he can't see it, Alfred knows that Arthur's finger is not on the safety. He is absolutely, 100% certain, and he knows he's right because there is no safety on a TT-33. Alfred knows Kiku loaded the gun, but not with what. Even blanks will do damage at this range. And if it's live ammunition…heat shivers through Alfred; he opens his mouth wider, straining to lean forward, to take it in more, deeper.

He gags when it touches the back of his throat. Arthur pulls it back though not out. An unnamable intensity washes through Alfred when Arthur lets him keep sucking, though the thrusts are shallower now.

"Such a pretty little whore, aren't you?" Arthur murmurs. Alfred closes his eyes as Arthur strokes Alfred's cheek, strokes the muzzle of the gun on the other side of Alfred's skin. "So pretty, yet so stupid. Always thinking you can do things you can't. Win the war, save the world, swallow this gun."

Another hand, which must be Kiku's because Alfred can still feel Arthur's fingers on his face, yanks a handful of hair so Alfred comes off the gun, and then shoves him back down on it so Alfred gags again, a soft cry escaping him.

"Yes," Arthur says now and even though Alfred can't see his eyes, he hears the dark fire in that voice—"you're a very pretty whore, indeed. _My_ pretty whore. I shall probably give you to the Commonwealth, when they are very good, or you are very bad."

Alfred's eyes snap open. Having recaptured Alfred's gaze, Arthur says, "For now, though, I need you to get this slick for when I fuck you with it. As slick as you can get it—or as slick as you want it to be."

The words fill Alfred with a rush, a surge, a _heat_. He can't stop his own words from filling his mouth; they spill out inarticulately around the edges of the gun.

Alfred's mouth is left empty as Arthur withdraws the gun, dragging the last of the words out into articulation: "—love you, I love you."

For a long moment, Arthur holds Alfred's gaze.

The moment is so long that Alfred lives and dies and lives again a hundred times; more; uncountable lives and deaths.

Then Arthur, who has blinked only once, says, "But do you surrender?"

Alfred holds the gaze as steadily as he can for how badly he's shaking. "Never," he whispers.

As Arthur turns, Alfred sees his eyes close.

Then Alfred sinks to his knees as his overhead bonds are released. When his ankle restraints are undone, he lets Kiku drag his legs straight in front of himself. He almost doesn't feel the abrasion of the floor against the tender marks from Kiku's whip as he lies back. "Don't dare to try closing your legs," Kiku instructs him as Arthur kneels between them; Arthur puts his hand against Alfred's inner thigh to punctuate Kiku's words. Alfred will not be broken by them, and spreads himself open wider.

The first touch is not as cool as Alfred expected. The metal must have warmed in his mouth. He shivers, anyhow. The barrel slides in, slow, smooth, deep; the muzzle nudges his prostate and Alfred's hips rise off the floor; his moan is low, helpless. He closes his eyes and moans again as the gun pistons slowly inside him.

He opens them again when he feels his hips lifted, watches himself angled to settle in Arthur's kneeling lap. As Arthur—as the gun fucks him, Alfred starts to clamp down, writhing in Arthur's lap. His cock is dark with blood, with need; his heartbeat pulses painfully in his cockhead. He fixes his gaze on the TT-33 where it's disappearing inside him, fixes his gaze on Arthur's hand on the gun, Arthur's finger still not on a safety that doesn't exist; Alfred fixes on the cuff of Arthur's redcoat, the flashes of skin at his wrist as he moves. Alfred wants to touch, but his hands are crossed on the floor above his head, Kiku's knees on his forearms. He opens and closes his fingers around the air, not nearly as thick out here as it is sliding through his lungs. Alfred is shaking so hard it's affecting his sight, because it looks like Arthur's hand is shaking, too.

Then the weight on his arms is gone and Kiku's hand is on Arthur's on the gun; and then Arthur's hand slips from beneath Kiku's, his lap slips from beneath Alfred as he stands.

The gun continues to move in and out of Alfred as he lies naked and open on the floor. Alfred could touch it if he wanted to, because Arthur has not come to take Kiku's place at his hands. Arthur is standing over him. Arthur is standing over Alfred in his redcoat, and Alfred imagines rain and mud, he imagines the gunshot, kneeling as Arthur stands over him, having stripped him of his musket, stripping him of his uniform; stripping him of everything, taking him, fucking him, raping and claiming him, _owning_ him on the battlefield.

The sounds he hears are not the cries of the battlefield. They're coming from him, but he can't understand the words because his hand is over his mouth. Kiku says Arthur's name, and Arthur bends to take Alfred's hand away from his mouth.

"Please~ fuck me, _fuck me_ , oh fuck _please_ —I want your cocks. I need them, I need to be fucked, filled~"

"Alfred," Kiku says, holding the gun still inside him, "if you want something, you know what you must do."

Alfred does know. Oh, he _does_ :

"Surrender~"


	3. Chapter 3

Kiku smiles. Alfred feels an ache as Kiku gently withdraws the gun, and trembles as the hem of Kiku's jacket grazes his cock when Kiku leans forward to kiss him. Still arched over Alfred, Kiku reaches between them to rest the tips of his middle and forefinger on the metal band around the base of Alfred's cock and the ache in Alfred throbs anew, but he shakes his head; he doesn't want to come yet, not yet. "All right," Kiku says, smiling again as he stands to undress.

Arthur is undressing, too. As Alfred's gaze tacks between them, his hand travels down his body, passing by his cock to reach farther down, down between his legs, still spread open. Even with the pressure of orgasm building inside him, Alfred feels empty. He spreads his legs wider, circles his hole, brushes across the pucker, but he doesn't try to fill it; he knows his own fingers wouldn't be enough to fill the emptiness, the achiness. The ache thrums through him, thick and hot; he's so hot all over, but he can't stop shivering.

"Alfred." Arthur kneels by him, the redcoat in his hands now. "Here," Arthur says, coaxing him up. "Are you cold?"

Alfred shakes his head, then shivers again as Arthur drapes the coat over his shoulders. Looking into Alfred's eyes, Arthur brushes back the damp strands of hair clinging to Alfred's face. Alfred tries to say his name, but it only comes out a heavier breath. Arthur smiles and kisses Alfred chastely; even when Alfred's lips part for more, Arthur shifts into a closer fit but enters Alfred only with breath until they part.

Even though he's hot, Alfred wraps the coat closer around himself as he lies down again. Arthur has stood once more and is undoing the front of his breeches. Alfred stretches out a hand, touches his boot; twisting, he presses his lips to the boot, curling his hand around the heel as he kisses. He hears Arthur swear softly above him; and then, softly, "Shall I keep them on?"

Alfred looks up and sees Arthur looking at him. He nods.

Feeling a touch at his hip, Alfred looks over his shoulder at Kiku, kneeling naked and ready. "Do you want this?" Kiku asks.

Kiku knows Alfred wants it, but Alfred also knows it's important to Kiku to ask, important for Alfred to answer. "Yeah." He moistens his lips and says it again: "Yeah~" He rolls onto his back and spreads his legs, his breath thickening as Kiku's slickened cockhead touches him and pushes inside in one movement. He closes his eyes as his body remembers the shape and learns anew the rhythms of Kiku's cock.

As Alfred arches to Kiku's fucking, he opens his eyes and sees Arthur, naked, sitting on the chair behind him to put his boots back on. Alfred holds the arch, strains to arch more; his gaze, lingering, catches on Arthur's cock, full and blood-darkened. Inarticulate desire vibrates from Alfred.

In the next moment, the moan mutates and chokes off; brow furrowed, Alfred looks down as he feels Kiku withdraw from him.

"Here, Alfred—like this." Kiku gets him flipped over, and then seats Alfred in his lap, his cock inside once more. The back of Kiku's fingers caress up from the hollow of Alfred's throat to rest under his chin, encouraging Alfred's gaze up from the redcoat, still on the floor, to find Arthur himself. Kiku's breath is warm at Alfred's ear. "Is this better?"

Alfred grinds down, feeling Kiku's cock deep inside him, deep and full. The ache pulses. He looks at Arthur, who has paused in doing up his boots to watch the repositioning. "Yeah," Alfred says, putting his hands behind Kiku's back, arching as he puts himself on display. He follows Arthur's gaze down, looks at his own cock, dark and swollen; the ache swells in Alfred and he has to close his eyes. When he feels Kiku's hands on his hips, Alfred starts to move; he lets Kiku help him find the rhythm, lets Kiku drive the rhythm, his own hands remaining clasped behind Kiku's back.

When he hears Arthur's bootsteps, Alfred opens his eyes again and watches Arthur—clad in those boots and otherwise naked—come across the floor. Toeing the redcoat out of the way, Arthur bends to cup Alfred's face, tilting Alfred up to him, and bends more to kiss him, soft and chaste again, then with a hint of tongue just at the end before Arthur straightens. Alfred moistens his lips, mouth open, flashes of tongue kissing the air between them; and then Arthur is kissing him again: tracing Alfred's lips with his cockhead, Alfred's tongue daring soft flicks against the underside.

Arthur pulls back just enough so only Alfred's tongue can reach him. He holds his cock for Alfred to lick, and Alfred does, sweeping his tongue across the head, eyes open, looking up at Arthur. He has to look over the rim of his glasses so his vision is blurred, but he thinks their gazes don't quite meet, Arthur's focused instead on Alfred's tongue. Lashes fluttering, Alfred licks a little more, then lets his hands unclasp, his grip settling on Kiku's thrusting hips to anchor himself as he leans forward for more of Arthur's cock, a soft whine of frustration twining with his exhale.

"Arthur," Kiku says, "he has already surrendered. Please don't deny him any longer."

In answer, Arthur runs his fingers through Alfred's hair, his hand splaying to cup the back of Alfred's head; with his other hand, he feeds Alfred his cock slowly. Alfred welcomes him in, coaxing him with licks along the underside, until Arthur's cockhead nudges the back of Alfred's throat. When Alfred's gag reflex is triggered, Arthur draws back—but not out; Alfred's whimper of gratitude is muffled by the cock still filling his mouth. Holding onto Kiku with one hand, Alfred brings his other forward to cup Arthur's leather-clad calf, stroking the boot as he continues to suck, as Kiku continues to fuck him.

When Kiku's thrust pushes Alfred forward this time, Arthur lets Alfred take more of his cock; he lets Alfred take him down into his throat. Alfred swallows convulsively, milking Arthur's cock, feeling Arthur's fingers tighten in his hair with the same rhythm; feeling Arthur's fingers on his throat, light strokes, Arthur caressing himself through Alfred's skin.

Alfred almost can't control the orgasmic impulse that surges through him. But he squeezes his pubococcygeal muscle hard, as hard as he can, and the upward pull of muscle is enough to stay his climax.

When Alfred takes his hand off Arthur's boot to check his cock ring, Arthur moves back. Alfred leans with him, keeping Arthur in his mouth, trapping Arthur's cockhead behind his teeth oh so gently, looking up at Arthur even though he can't see him clearly, his glasses too low for the gaze's angle. Arthur says his name, but Alfred can't respond, not the way it seems Arthur wants, not with words. He can only suckle, and hope Arthur understands the vibrations of _please_.

And then the vibrations find voice, not Alfred's but Kiku's. "Arthur—do not make him beg."

 _Please_ , Alfred's tongue echoes wetly, wordlessly. _Please, please~_

The fingers in Alfred's hair tighten. And then Arthur's cock is sliding deeper; sliding shallow and deeper, again and again and again. As Arthur fucks his mouth, Alfred rocks in Kiku's lap, rides him, his hand slipped from Kiku's hip to his ass, feeling the contraction of muscles as Kiku thrusts in and out of him. His other hand brushes along the floor and, finding the edge of the redcoat, fists into it.

Alfred doesn't have enough hands: he needs to keep holding on to Kiku, and he wants to keep holding on to the redcoat, and he wants to touch Arthur's boot, to dare once more to wrap his hand around the leather-clad calf even if he does not dare pull it towards him, even if he dares only to imagine the toe nudging his balls, the sole pressing his cock against his belly…

Alfred does not have enough hands, and he does not have enough holes: Kiku is filling his ass and Arthur is filling his mouth, but Alfred wants to be filled more. He aches to be filled more: more deeply, more thoroughly, completely. There's a fullness and weight to his ache, an amazing pressure building inside him. It's almost too much, but not enough; not enough, not enough, not enough…

One of Arthur's hands leaves Alfred's hair to touch his cheek, caressing just where the bulge of his cockhead is pushing from inside, as if he's stroking himself. He cups Alfred's chin and urges him forward, letting go once Alfred starts moving on his cock, touching Alfred's throat when Alfred swallows him down. As Alfred swallows around Arthur's cock, he clutches Kiku's ass, pulling Kiku to him as he pushes back, holding Kiku as deep inside him as he can and grinding in his lap.

Arthur's fingers tighten in Alfred's hair, tugging him back just enough so his cockhead rests in Alfred's mouth, cradled by Alfred's tongue as Arthur spills into him at last. Alfred's lashes flutter but he doesn't let his eyes close; he looks up, squinting over the top of his glasses, taking in Arthur's flush and trying to focus on Arthur's expression as he orgasms. Not enough, oh, _not enough_ : Alfred wants to touch Arthur but he needs to wrap a hand around the base of his own cock, squeezing so he won't come yet himself.

Alfred wants to swallow everything—but Arthur pulls out, and the last spurts hit his face, so much softer than a slap but making him color as if he's been backhanded.

And then Arthur is sinking to his knees, kissing Alfred's lips, cleaning his come from Alfred's face with his tongue, and when Alfred's lashes flutter this time, he lets them draw his eyes closed. He twines the fingers of both hands with Kiku's on his hips, just needing to hold on, letting Kiku control the rhythm as Kiku keeps on fucking him. He splays wider but Kiku can't be any deeper inside him than he already is; he opens his mouth more and Arthur returns to it, kissing more, licking deeper, licking traces of his come from Alfred's mouth.

As he kisses Alfred, Arthur's hands move over his face, pushing back slicks of hair. Alfred's fingers close tighter with Kiku's before he lets go with one hand and brings it up to tangle in the strands at Arthur's nape. "Yes~" Arthur murmurs into the kiss, and Alfred holds on, fist in Arthur's hair, moaning as Arthur licks him.

Then Arthur disentangles Alfred's hand from his hair and brings it to Alfred's cock, wrapping Alfred's fingers around himself. Arthur's fingertips caress the back of Alfred's hand, but Alfred can't move; it's all he can do to hold on. The angle of Kiku's cock inside him shifts and there's a weight against Alfred's back as Kiku leans forward and reaches around to undo the cock ring; there's a different weight as Arthur curls his fist beneath Alfred's cockhead and thumbs it. It's almost enough—and then when Arthur's forefinger drifts up and he pinches, that tender, violent touch _is_ enough, just enough to trigger Alfred to spill out of himself with a cry far softer than the one he feels.

He lets go of himself and reaches for Arthur, who is still kissing him; he keeps holding on to Kiku, who is still fucking him. He's still coming, but it's not enough, he doesn't want it to stop. He doesn't care if he himself stops, he just doesn't want _them_ to stop. He wants Arthur to fuck him. He wants Kiku to keep fucking him, and he wants Arthur to fuck him, too. "Fuck me," he whispers when Arthur's mouth moves from his. Desire slurs his words and he doesn't know if Arthur has understood, so he seeks out Arthur's eyes. When their gazes connect, Alfred says it again: "I want you to fuck me."

Arthur murmurs his name thickly, and then again with a sigh: "Oh, Alfred." He smiles, and tendrils of desire knot themselves in Alfred's belly. "I don't think I can just yet."

Alfred lets the momentum of Kiku's next thrust carry him to Arthur, his head falling to Arthur's shoulder. He looks down at Arthur's cock, lying soft and spent along his thigh, and moistens his lips. Closing his eyes, he takes pleasure in the light friction of moving against Arthur as Kiku fucks him. His tongue drags wetly over his lips again. "I could get you hard."

Arthur's hand under his chin turns Alfred's face to him. "Not even your sweet mouth can defy biology." He smiles and lets his thumb come up to trace Alfred's lips. Alfred's tongue flicks out to meet it, coaxing it into his mouth, licking and sucking; licking and sucking even as Arthur leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth, even as Arthur's lips shift center.

Arthur's mouth leaves the kiss first; he draws his thumb away, then leans in to touch Alfred's lips chastely with his own. Alfred feels Kiku's cock sliding in and out of him as comfortably as the slide of breath. More comfortably, maybe; maybe more necessary. He drops his hands to the floor on either side of Arthur and pushes back; feels the pause as Kiku gathers himself and slips back into the rhythm once more, locks into it.

Alfred focuses on his hand on the floor, watches it move in until it's touching Arthur, though not his skin. If Arthur won't fuck him, then—"I want to worship."

The words as they leave his lips feel like a mistake. Not wrong: they are right and true—but not something to be spoken aloud. He can't take them back, though. He looks up, and finds an unreadable expression on Arthur's face. He glances down, and when he looks back up he sees that Arthur has followed his gaze, and is looking now at Alfred's hand on his boot.

Their eyes meet again. Then wordlessly Arthur sits back, unfolding his legs from beneath him, moving back before bending one leg to set the sole of the boot on the floor in front of Alfred. The weight of his body rests on his hands behind him; the weight of his gaze rests on Alfred.

Alfred lets the weight lower him to the floor. He presses his lips to the toe of the boot. Closing his eyes, he turns his head and rubs his cheek along the leather, then turns back to kiss again, this time open-mouthed. He breathes in the scent of polish, the natural musk of leather beneath that. He caresses and adores with his lips, tongue, the tips of his fingers.

And all the while Kiku keeps fucking him, fucking him, fucking him.

Alfred is nuzzling a crease across the base of the toes when he feels the boot slide away from him. Arthur says his name but Alfred can't look up. As he moves his hand to fold his arms beneath his head, he brushes fabric: the redcoat. His fingers latch on and bring it to him. It smells faintly of Arthur. Alfred buries his face in the bunched material and breathes in deeply, drawing those hints of Arthur into himself.

Kiku's finger traces his cleft—no, Kiku is holding his hips with both hands. It's _oh god, oh fuck please_ Arthur's finger. There's a hitch in the rhythm when Arthur's finger worms in beside Kiku's cock: and then they're both inside him, Arthur fingerfucking him while Kiku cockfucks him. Alfred opens his mouth against the redcoat. Something breaks inside him, washes through him, suffuses him and he feels like he's coming again but nothing is spilling out of him, he's just coming inside himself.

Then Arthur stretches out beside him, still fingering him, kissing him when Alfred turns his face; kissing him as Alfred lets go of the redcoat to reach back and give permission, as his hand on Kiku's hip asks and Kiku's body says yes, and Kiku comes inside him.

Arthur keeps kissing Alfred, more slowly now, the kiss becoming a series of kisses separated from each other by breaths. They slow until they aren't kissing anymore. Lips still parted, Alfred keeps his eyes closed and lets his body remember how to breathe air instead of redcoat and kisses. Though he wants to arch into the touch of Kiku's hand soothing along his spine, he lies still, eyes closed, breathing, breathing.

Even when Kiku softens and slips out, he continues stroking Alfred's back. Instinctively and then by choice, Alfred contracts around Arthur's finger and Arthur remains inside him another moment, until Alfred succumbs to relaxation and eases around him.

Alfred feels Arthur get up, but now Kiku is stretched out on his other side and Alfred rolls over to face him, though he lets his eyelids stay fallen shut. When he feels Kiku's fingertip at the corner of his mouth, he smiles into the touch. Contentment sluices through him as he sighs and opens his eyes at last.

"You were so good, Alfred," Kiku tells him, soft and sincere. "So brave and so beautiful."

Bliss laps against Alfred's contentment, swirling with it gently. He blushed terribly the first time Kiku said something like this to him afterwards, but Alfred has come to take no shame or embarrassment but only pleasure from the praises. He adores this; in the immediate afterwards of a scene, he sometimes feels as if this, _this_ is what he lives for. He lets the soft looks and soft touches and most of all the softly-spoken words wrap around him, safe and warm as he floats in sub space, protecting him from impact, easing him down so he doesn't fall as he comes back down.

"Did you like it?" Kiku asks.

Alfred flutters beneath his caress. "Yeah." The bow of his smile deepens. "The best. This was the best ever."

The bright pride that shines in Kiku's eyes at Alfred's words makes Alfred want to kiss him, so he offers his mouth, breathing some of his peaceful delight into Kiku when their lips touch.

He feels Arthur settle beside him again. "Alfred—"

The hesitation makes Alfred roll onto his back and seek out Arthur's eyes. A new wave of quiet euphoria floods him when Arthur smiles at him. Arthur hands Alfred a bottle of water. "Here, you must need this."

Accepting the bottle, Alfred thanks him and pushes himself into a sitting position. He doesn't realize how thirsty he is until the first mouthful of cool water goes down his throat. He lifts the bottle to his lips again and doesn't lower it, even when little rivulets escape his mouth to run along his skin, over his chin and down his throat.

When Alfred sets down the empty bottle, Arthur says his name again and again Alfred hears the hesitation he'd forgotten when Arthur smiled. "I know it's a little late for this," Arthur says, "but—is it all right that I'm here?"

Alfred laughs. "Yeah." He glances over at Kiku now, wide grin softening as their eyes meet. "Yeah, it's all right."

"Only," Arthur says, and Alfred turns to him again. "I know the aftercare is different. It can be more intimate, even, and just because one has been invited to someone's scene—" He breaks off and cocks a grin at Alfred. "Ah, no worries."

When Arthur leans forward to gather his feet beneath him, Alfred leans in, too. He meant to kiss Arthur, but finds himself nuzzling Arthur's ear, his hair, resting cheek to cheek with him.

Then he feels Arthur's arm around him, Arthur nuzzling him back, an "all right, then" murmured against his skin.

Arthur kisses his brow when they part, and the contentment in Alfred twirls. He wonders if Kiku told Arthur how much Alfred likes that—and then he realizes that no, of course Arthur knows on his own, from Alfred's childhood. The twirl flips inside out, melts and pools melted in Alfred's belly.

"Alfred," Kiku says, "would you like to go to the care room now?"

Alfred smiles and nods. The care room looks just like a bathroom, but this particular bathroom is used only for aftercare, for cleaning up and tending to any physical damage. After the first couple of times, he decided he wanted a special room for this. Only he and Kiku have ever been inside the care room. No one else even knows about it except for them, Alfred and Kiku, and now Arthur as well.

Once, Alfred asked Kiku if he thought it was all right for people who tell each other everything to keep secrets, and Kiku said he thinks it's important for everyone to have some things all to themselves. So this is one of Alfred's: he calls this room the Treasure Room, but only in his own head. He calls it that because this is where he feels treasured.

As they enter, Alfred's fingers linger on the molding of the door frame, and not just because he installed it. He did everything in here himself, of course—laid every pipe, attached every fixture, glued every tile—and he takes both pride and pleasure in that. But this touch is not to dwell on that accomplishment: it's to set the space inside apart from the space outside. With this touch, Alfred gives himself permission not to think about how this can't last, how he has to come down, how he'll be alone when they leave.

He's not alone now, and now is all that matters in here. He seats himself on the cushioned bench he built across the bathtub and lets them sponge and rinse his body. Alfred never used to clean up immediately after sex with Kiku; he liked to keep the traces of it with him. But clean is important to Kiku, and Alfred has come to enjoy the ritual. He basks in the way Kiku's hands—the way _their_ hands touch him now. When Arthur removes Alfred's glasses to pass a damp cloth over his face, Alfred smiles at him; even though he can't see Arthur clearly, he thinks Arthur is smiling, too.

As Kiku swabs and bandages Alfred's cuts and rubs salve on his bruises, Arthur brings Alfred another bottle of water from the small refrigerator in the corner. Alfred downs it almost as quickly as he drank the first one. Sighing with satisfaction, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand—and draws a sharp, audible breath as his knuckle grazes over his lip, still tender from the bite.

Arthur's face comes into focus as he leans down. "Here, let me have a look." The pad of his thumb barely touches Alfred's lip as he brushes over it in assessment.

And then Arthur is kissing him again. Softly, softly, and all of Alfred's breath wells up in him and passes into Arthur, and Arthur breathes back into him. There isn't supposed to be kissing in the care room, but this kiss—the touch of Arthur's mouth, the touch of his breath, the touch of his hands as he cups Alfred's face, as he kneels and tilts Alfred down to him—oh~ Alfred feels so treasured in this kiss.

Alfred could live longer moments in this kiss, but he sighs only lightly when it ends. Arthur runs his hand through Alfred's hair. "Shall I wash this for you?"

"Oh," Alfred says.

"Alfred does not like to sleep with wet hair," Kiku explains as he resumes massaging Alfred's shoulders.

"Ah." Arthur attempts to tame the stray strands framing Alfred's face with his fingers, but lets them flop where they will as they fall free again. "Perhaps in the morning, then."

Alfred can't do any more than smile in response.

They move to the small sauna annex. Alfred has always enjoyed soaking in the hot springs at Kiku's, and even though it's not quite the same, he decided to add a hot tub to the Treasure Room. There's a skylight in here so they can look up at the stars as they come down.

When he's ready, Alfred steps out of the tub and lets them rub him down with a towel before he slips into his favorite pajama bottoms, the red, white, and blue paisley faded to tones as soft as the well-worn cotton blend. Kiku dons the green silk kimono he keeps here. Like Alfred, Arthur favors modern western pajama bottoms, though his are classier: black with white pinstripes.

As they go, Alfred again lets his fingertips mark the passage through the door, signifying the transfer out of sub space and into the world.

His bed is a California king, of course, and accommodates three as easily as two. Alfred takes his place in the middle of it, which is where he sleeps both when he has company in bed and when he doesn't.

The three of them sprawl in comfortable silence. Alfred is wondering if he should offer to order in food if the other two are hungry—when Kiku says, "You were so strong." Kiku's voice is low. "You _are_ so strong. I could not have done what you did tonight, Alfred."

Alfred thinks of all Kiku has done, all Kiku has survived. He lets Kiku's gaze wrap around his and touches the radiation scar without having to look for it.

After another long moment, Kiku brings Alfred's hand to his lips, then leans over to kiss Alfred's brow before getting up. "I will bid you a good evening now. Sweet dreams, as you say."

"Hang on," Arthur says, sitting up suddenly from where he had sprawled, "are you not staying?"

Reassurance and encouragement dance slowly in Kiku's eyes and on his lips. Although he's speaking to Arthur, he looks at Alfred as he says, "He surrendered to both of us. But he confessed only to you, Arthur." He turns his smile on Arthur, and then back to Alfred. This time his words are for Alfred. "May I come tomorrow? There is a new videogame I would like to share with you."

The stability of that steadies Alfred. A deep sigh moves through him. Yes, Kiku can be relied upon. "Yeah." He grins. "Definitely."

"I like your smile so much, Alfred." The corners of Kiku's mouth stay curved up even as he turns and goes.

Alfred lies back on the bed, eyes closed. As Kiku's footsteps fade and silences settles in, Alfred breathes in; he breathes out; he does it again. Kiku has never left afterwards before. But he's promised to be back tomorrow, and Alfred believes him. And anyhow, he hasn't left Alfred alone. Arthur is here.

Arthur.

Alfred breathes in and out and in, feeling his lungs expand as they fill with air; feeling them empty; feeling them fill again.

The mattress shifts beneath Alfred as Arthur props up beside him. "That was extraordinary," Arthur says, and Alfred warms. "You were amazing."

"Thanks. But _you're_ the one who was amazing." Alfred's grin is wide and sincere. He opens his eyes—and feels something wet well up. He takes off his glasses and wipes the unexpected spill of tears away with the back of his hand as he sits up. "Sorry." He knows his smile is shaky and he turns away, then covers for himself by putting his glasses on the nightstand as if that's what he meant to do. "Sometimes when it get intense, sometimes after…" He trails off with a shrug and another smile. Arthur is blurry, his expression illegible to Alfred without his glasses. A few more stray tears escape. Embarrassment creeps over Alfred as he wipes them away impatiently.

Beside him, Arthur lies down; even if Alfred can't see his face clearly, the extended arm is unmistakably an invitation.

Closing his eyes, Alfred lies facing Arthur. The pad of Arthur's thumb is soft as he brushes away the damp trickle. When the teardrops are gone, Arthur continues stroking Alfred's hair, his face, his throat. With each caress, Alfred sinks deeper into relaxation. He's starting to float as he sinks, and even though he's not sure he feels tired, he wonders if sleep will come soon.

Then Arthur says his name, and Alfred opens his eyes with an easy smile. Arthur just looks at him and Alfred thinks maybe this is all Arthur wanted; but then Arthur says, "I hope you won't think I'm overstepping my bounds. Kiku knows my intentions. But of course the final say is yours." Arthur's hand has stilled in Alfred's hair. "Only I was thinking that if you'd ever like to surrender to me again—" he pauses to smile—"that could be arranged."

 _Oh_ , Alfred wants to surrender right now.

Arthur says his name softly with a question mark at the end, and Alfred manages to nod. "Is that a yes, then?" Arthur asks with another smile. His gaze sinks into Alfred, twining with the unspoken surrender, thickening it. But it doesn't weigh Alfred down; it makes him float more.

Alfred's lips part, but only a thick breath comes out. He nods again, and lets out another deep exhale. Even as he expels breath, he can still feel Arthur's gaze in his lungs, in his heart.

Finding his voice, Alfred says, "Maybe we could play American Revolution. Or Great Rebellion, I mean." The next words writhe in his belly and he knows they'll still themselves if he doesn't say them—but he does it anyhow, if haltingly: "Maybe we could play that you—that you took the shot. That I lost, that I still…that I belong to you."

The flush on Arthur's cheeks makes Alfred blush more hotly himself.

"Maybe," Alfred dares now. His teeth tug deliberately at his lip just where Arthur first kissed him, before his tongue soothes over it. "Maybe sometimes we wouldn't use a safeword."

Arthur's inhale is audible, but he doesn't break the gaze. "Is that what you want?"

Arthur's gaze is cutting through more of Alfred's layers than any of Kiku's knives and daggers ever have. That gaze flays him, leaving him raw. Vulnerable. Exposed.

Gaze unbroken, Alfred nods again. Then he says, "Now?"

"Oh, Alfred~" Arthur murmurs, and leans down to kiss him. It's far sweeter and more tender than the one Alfred expected when Arthur moved in so swiftly. The kiss slows and goes on, gentle and full.

When they part, Arthur props up. Brushing back the damp strands of hair from Alfred's forehead, he says, "I don't think either of us is ready for that just yet."

Alfred can't read Arthur's expression from his voice. Brow furrowing, Alfred squints as his gaze reaches for Arthur's. "Will you just fuck me, then?"

Arthur sits all the way up now, and then climbs over Alfred. So that's the answer, then. Alfred doesn't understand why Arthur couldn't just get out of bed on his own side, but he isn't going to ask. His teeth graze over his bruised lip, but he doesn't bite down.

Then Arthur settles himself on the bed and turns to Alfred with something in his hand. There's a pause before he says, "Just getting your glasses."

Oh. "Thanks." Alfred offers a grin as he sits up to take them. He looks at them in his hand, and then puts them on…but once they're in place, he doesn't look up. He doesn't look at Arthur.

After a moment, he swings his feet over the edge of the bed and gets up.

"Alfred?"

"I'm okay," Alfred says. "I'm just—I have a headache."

He means it as an excuse, but as he leaves the room, he discovers it's true: there's a terrible, throbbing pressure in his head. Maybe fresh air will help.

He's sitting on the bench in his backyard looking up at the spaces between stars when he hears the door open behind him.

"Hey."

"Sorry," Alfred says, still looking into space. "I know I'm being weird. It's—" He looks down at his hands in his lap and shakes his head. "You don't have to stay."

The only sound is Arthur shifting in the doorway. Then he says, "I'll go if that's honestly what you want. But, if you'll let me, I'd like to stay."

Alfred shuts his eyes before the brightness can leak out again.

"Alfred?"

Alfred swallows. He half-turns his head, eyes downcast so his lids can fall over them if they need to. "You can stay. If you want."

"I do want." Arthur comes and sits beside him.

Alfred looks up at the night sky again, at bright pricks of light far, far away.

His hand drifts from his lap to the bench. When Arthur's hand touches it, Alfred doesn't shy away.

Then Arthur says, "Come back to bed. Come sleep with me tonight. In the morning, we can fuck. And maybe, if it's true—but only if it's true—you'll tell me that thing again. This time without needing a gun held to your head." Alfred can hear Arthur's grin.

Then the smile fades as Arthur says, "Is it, Alfred? Is it true?"

Alfred shifts to face him. "Do you want it to be?"

"Your whole life I've wanted it to be true."

They gaze at each other through shadows, through starlight.

"If I say it right now, will you fuck me now?"

Arthur doesn't respond at first. Then: "Alfred..." He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to.

Alfred looks down. "Okay, okay. I'll stop!" He tries to smile as he looks up, but it doesn't feel like his mouth is entirely succeeding and he hopes the shadows are covering for him.

"I'm not saying I don't want to," Arthur says. "Only I don't think you can say no right now, which means you can't say yes. And I want you to say yes."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Alfred hears the smile in Arthur's voice again as he says, "I'm desperate for it, if you must know the truth." And then the smile heats and thickens, transmuted into something else: "I'm so desperate for you, Alfred."

They look at each other even though they can't really see in the starlight, in the shadows.

Alfred slips from the bench, going to his knees before Arthur.

And then Arthur slides off the bench, too, and into Alfred's lap. As they kiss, Alfred falls backwards, pulling Arthur down with him, needing Arthur's weight so he won't float away. Blades of grass crush into each other beneath him, releasing a pleasant earthy scent—but Alfred is still drifting up to stars, into that incomprehensible space between them. The kiss goes on and on and Alfred doesn't know how to tell Arthur he's wrong, that _Alfred_ is the one who's desperate.

Even when their mouths part, Alfred doesn't know how to tell Arthur. The words are jammed up at the base of his throat. Alfred takes Arthur's hand and brings it there, as if Arthur will be able to read the lump in Alfred's throat like Braille. Arthur's other hand soothes over Alfred's skin and through his hair, but the caresses don't soothe Alfred's breath, which only comes more undone.

Arthur strokes Alfred's throat. The curl of his finger presses beneath Alfred's chin. Alfred's undone breath spreads out, away from him. He closes his eyes and sees the blackness of space, and falls into it.

When he opens his eyes, he finds himself breathing again. His breath is too much for him—and Arthur seems to know this, because he sends Alfred into unconsciousness again. And then again after that. Every time Alfred starts to breathe again, every time he breathes and opens his eyes, Arthur is there. Arthur is _here_.

Alfred gazes up at him.

"Kiku isn't the only one who likes your smile, you know," Arthur says. "I love your smile, Alfred. I love your smile as much as I love you."

His words give Alfred a desire so pervasive and overwhelming, it feels like peace.

When Alfred's breathing rhythm has steadied, Arthur smiles at him. "Shall we sleep out beneath the stars tonight?"

Alfred nods.

"Do you think you're calm enough to sleep now?"

"One more time," Alfred whispers.

So Arthur does it again.

When Alfred comes to this time, Arthur kisses him chastely, and a deep sigh shudders through Alfred, smoothing out the last ragged edges of his breathing. Arthur lies down and cushions Alfred against him. Something inside Alfred breaks open, fills him, anchors him to earth and sends him starwards, and wordlessly Alfred surrenders. He smiles, and surrenders, and surrenders.


	4. illustration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commissioned artwork by the supremely talented [may_chan](http://may_chan.livejournal.com).
> 
> (Please leave a comment if the image is not appearing; this one has been particularly difficult to keep hosted...)

  
  


_The gun continues to move in and out of Alfred as he lies naked and open on the floor. Alfred could touch it if he wanted to, because Arthur has not come to take Kiku's place at his hands. Arthur is standing over him. Arthur is standing over Alfred in his redcoat, and Alfred imagines rain and mud, he imagines the gunshot, kneeling as Arthur stands over him, having stripped him of his musket, stripping him of his uniform; stripping him of everything, taking him, fucking him, raping and claiming him, owning him on the battlefield..._

(excerpt from Chapter 2)


End file.
